IN  MEMORY  OF 
WILLIAM  C.  HABBERLEY 


By  DR.  ABBOTT 

RECENT  RAMBLES;  OR, 
IN  TOUCH  WITH  NATURE. 
Crown  8vo.  Gilt  top.  Illus- 
trated. $2.00 


TRAVELS  IN 
A  TREE-TOP 


RAVELS  IN 
fATREE-TOP 
ByCHARLES 
rf  CONRAD 
JtkBBOTT 


PHILADELPHIA  &  LON- 
DON: J.B.L1PPINCOTT 
COMPANY:  MDCCCXCIV 


COPYRIGHT,  1894, 

BY 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY. 

BIOLOGY 
LIBRARY 


^ 

0 


PRINTED  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA. 


CONTENTS 

Page 

Travels  in  a  Tree-top     .    . 9 

A  Hunt  for  the  Pyxie 61 

The  Coming  of  the  Birds 71 

The  Building  of  the  Nest 83 

Corn-stalk  Fiddles 97 

The  Old  Kitchen  Door 103 

Up  the  Creek 109 

A  Winter-Night's  Outing 119 

Wild  Life  in  Water 125 

An  Old-fashioned  Garden 133 

An  Indian  Trail 147 

A  Pre-Columbian  Dinner 155 

A  Day's  Digging 167 

Drifting 173 

Footprints 187 

Bees  and  Buckwheat 195 

Dead  Leaves 203 


QHSI 

A  3  15 

BIOLOGY 
LIBRARY 


MS95880 


CHAPTER  FIRST 

TRAVELS  IN  A  TREE-TOP 


PEARLY  mist  shut  out  the  river, 
the  meadows,  and  every  field  for 
miles.  I  could  not  deteft  the  ripple 
of  the  outgoing  tide,  and  the  heartiest  songster 
sent  no  cheerful  cry  above  the  wide-spreading 
and  low-lying  cloud ;  but  above  all  this  silent, 
desolate,  and  seemingly  deserted  outlook  there 
was  a  wealth  of  sunshine  and  a  canopy  of 
deep-blue  sky.  Here  and  there,  as  islands  in 
a  boundless  sea,  were  the  leafy  tops  of  a  few 
tall  trees,  and  these,  I  fancied,  were  tempting 
regions  to  explore.  Travels  in  a  tree-top — 
surely,  here  we  have  a  bit  of  novelty  in  this 
worn-out  world. 

Unless  wholly  wedded  to  the  town,  it  is  not 
cheering  to  think  of  the  surrounding  country 
as  worn  out.  It  is  but  little  more  than  two 
centuries  since  the  home-seeking  folk  of  other 
lands  came  here  to  trick  or  trade  with  the 


io       Travels  in  a  Tree- top 

Indians,  wild  as  the  untamed  world  wherein 
they  dwelt ;  and  now  we  look  almost  in  vain 
for  country  as  Nature  fashioned  it.  Man  may 
make  of  a  desert  a  pleasant  place,  but  he  also 
unmakes  the  forest  and  bares  the  wooded  hills 
until  as  naked  and  desolate  as  the  fire-swept 
ruins  of  his  own  construction.  It  is  but  a 
matter  of  a  few  thousand  cart-loads  of  the  hill 
moved  to  one  side,  and  the  swamp  that  the 
farmer  dreads  because  it  yields  no  dollars  is  ob- 
literated. He  has  never  considered  its  wealth 
of  suggestiveness.  "  A  fig  for  the  flowers  and 
vermin.  I  must  plant  more  corn." 

But  here  and  there  the  tall  trees  are  still 
standing,  and  their  tops  are  an  untravelled 
country.  I  climbed  an  oak  this  cool  mid- 
summer morning;  clambered  beyond  the 
mists,  which  were  rolling  away  as  I  seated 
myself  far  above  the  ground,  safe  from  intru- 
sion, and  resting  trustfully  on  yielding  branches 
that  moved  so  gently  in  the  passing  breeze  that 
I  scarcely  perceived  their  motion. 

How  much  depends  upon  our  point  of  view ! 
The  woodland  path  may  not  be  charming  if 
the  undergrowth  too  closely  shuts  us  in.  In 
all  we  do,  we  seek  a  wider  vision  than  our 
arm's  length.  There  may  be  nothing  better 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top         n 

beyond  than  at  our  feet,  but  we  never  believe 
it.  It  is  as  natural  to  ask  of  the  distant  as 
of  the  future.  They  are  closely  akin.  Here 
in  the  tree-top  my  wants  were  supplied.  I 
was  only  in  the  least  important  sense  cribbed, 
cabined,  and  confined. 

Wild  life,  as  we  call  it,  is  very  discrimi- 
nating, and  that  part  of  it  which  notices  him 
at  all  looks  upon  man  as  a  land  animal ;  one 
that  gropes  about  the  ground,  and  awkwardly 
at  that,  often  stumbling  and  ever  making  more 
noise  than  his  progress  calls  for ;  but  when 
perched  in  a  tree,  as  an  arboreal  creature,  he 
is  to  be  studied  anew.  So,  at  least,  thought 
the  crows  that  very  soon  discovered  my  lofty 
quarters.  How  they  chattered  and  scolded ! 
They  dashed  near,  as  if  with  their  ebon  wings 
to  cast  a  spell  upon  me,  and,  craning  their  glossy 
necks,  spoke  words  of  warning.  My  indif- 
ference was  exasperating  at  first,  and  then,  as 
I  did  not  move,  they  concluded  I  was  asleep, 
dead,  or  a  dummy,  like  those  in  the  corn- 
fields. The  loud  expostulations  gave  place 
to  subdued  chatterings,  and  they  were  about 
to  leave  without  further  investigation,  when, 
by  the  pressure  of  my  foot,  I  snapped  a  dead 
twig.  I  will  not  attempt  description.  Per- 


12       Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

haps  to  this  day  the  circumstance  is  discussed 
in  corvine  circles. 

It  is  difficult  to  realize  the  freedom  of  flight. 
Twisting  and  turning  with  perfect  ease,  adapt- 
ing their  bodies  to  every  change  of  the  fitful 
wind,  these  crows  did  not  use  their  wings 
with  that  incessant  motion  that  we  need  in 
using  our  limbs  to  walk,  but  floated,  rose  and 
fell,  as  if  shadows  rather  than  ponderable 
bodies.  Until  we  can  fly,  or,  rather,  ride 
in  flying-machines,  we  cannot  hope  to  know 
much  of  this  flight-life  of  birds,  and  it  is  the 
better  part  of  their  lives.  But  it  was  some- 
thing to-day  to  be  with  even  these  crows  in 
the  air.  Following  their  erratic  flight  from 
such  a  point  of  view,  I  seemed  to  be  flying. 
We  are  given  at  times  to  wonder  a  great  deal 
about  birds,  and  they  have  equal  reason  to 
constantly  consider  us.  Who  can  say  what 
these  crows  thought  of  me  ?  All  I  can  offer 
to  him  who  would  solve  the  problem  is  that 
their  curiosity  was  unbounded,  and  this  is 
much  if  their  curiosity  and  ours  are  akin.  Of 
course  they  talked.  Garner  need  not  have 
gone  to  Africa  to  prove  that  monkeys  talk, 
and  no  one  can  question  that  crows  utter  more 
than  mere  alarm-cries. 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top        13 

A  word  more  concerning  crows.     What  so 
absurd,  apparently,  as  this  ? 

"  A  single  crow  betokens  sorrow, 

Two  betoken  mirth, 
Three  predift  a  funeral, 
And  four  a  birth." 

Yet  it  is  a  very  common  saying,  being  re- 
peated whenever  a  few,  or  less  than  five,  fly 
over.  It  is  repeated  mechanically,  of  course, 
and  then  forgotten,  for  no  one  seems  to  worry 
over  one  or  three  crows  as  they  do  when  a 
looking-glass  breaks  or  the  dropped  fork  sticks 
up  in  the  floor.  Seems  to  worry,  and  yet  I 
strongly  suspeft  a  trace  of  superstition  lingers 
in  the  mind  of  many  a  woman.  Those  who 
will  not  sit  as  one  of  thirteen  at  a  table  are 
not  dead  yet.  Can  it  be  that  all  this  weak- 
ness is  only  more  concealed  than  formerly, 
but  none  the  less  existent  ? 

I  watched  the  departing  crows  until  they 
were  but  mere  specks  in  the  sky,  and  heard, 
or  fancied  I  heard,  their  cawing  when  half  a 
mile  away.  It  is  ever  a  sweet  sound  to  me. 
It  means  so  much,  recalls  a  long  round  of  jolly 
years ;  and  what  matters  the  quality  of  a  sound 
if  a  merry  heart  prompts  its  utterance  ? 
2 


14       Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

I  was  not  the  only  occupant  of  the  tree ; 
there  were  hundreds  of  other  and  more  adlive 
travellers,  who  often  stopped  to  think  or  con- 
verse with  their  fellows  and  then  hurried  on. 
I  refer  to  the  great,  shining,  black  ants  that 
have  such  a  variety  of  meaningless  nicknames. 
Its  English  cousin  is  asserted  to  be  ill-tem- 
pered, if  not  venomous,  and  both  Chaucer 
and  Shakespeare  refer  to  them  as  often  mad 
and  always  treacherous.  I  saw  nothing  of 
this  to-day.  They  were  ever  on  the  go  and 
always  in  a  hurry.  They  seemed  not  to  dis- 
sociate me  from  the  tree ;  perhaps  thought 
me  an  odd  excrescence  and  of  no  importance. 
No  one  thinks  of  himself  as  such,  and  I  forced 
myself  upon  the  attention  of  some  of  the  hur- 
rying throng.  It  was  easy  to  intercept  them, 
and  they  grew  quickly  frantic ;  but  their  fel- 
lows paid  no  attention  to  such  as  I  held  cap- 
tive for  the  moment.  I  had  a  small  paper 
box  with  me,  and  this  I  stuck  full  of  pin-holes 
on  every  side  and  then  put  half  a  dozen  of 
the  ants  in  it.  Holding  it  in  the  line  of  the 
insedls'  march,  it  immediately  became  a  source 
of  wonderment,  and  every  ant  that  came  by 
stopped  and  parleyed  with  the  prisoners.  A 
few  returned  earthward,  and  then  a  number 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top        15 

came  together,  but  beyond  this  I  could  see 
nothing  in  the  way  of  concerted  action  on  the 
part  of  the  ants  at  large  looking  towards  suc- 
coring their  captive  fellows.  Releasing  them, 
these  detained  ants  at  once  scattered  in  all  di- 
rections, and  the  incident  was  quickly  forgot- 
ten. Where  were  these  ants  going,  and  what 
was  their  purpose  ?  I  wondered.  I  was  as 
near  the  tree's  top  as  I  dared  to  go,  but  the 
ants  went  on,  apparently  to  the  very  tips  of 
the  tiniest  twigs,  and  not  one  that  I  saw  came 
down  laden  or  passed  up  with  any  burden. 
It  is  not  to  be  supposed  they  had  no  purpose 
in  so  doing,  but  what  ?  There  is  scarcely  an 
hour  when  we  are  not  called  upon  to  witness 
just  such  aimless  activity, — that  is,  aimless  so 
far  as  we  can  determine. 

Nothing  molested  these  huge  black  ants, 
although  insect-eating  birds  came  and  went 
continually.  One  lordly,  great-crested  fly- 
catcher eyed  them  meditatively  for  some  sec- 
onds, and  then  my  identity  suddenly  dawned 
upon  him.  His  harsh  voice,  affected  by  fear, 
was  more  out  of  tune  than  ever,  and,  coupled 
with  his  precipitant  flight,  was  very  amusing. 
The  bird  fell  off  the  tree,  but  quickly  caught 
himself,  and  then,  as  usual,  curiosity  overcame 


1 6       Travels  in  a  Tree- top 

fear.  Students  of  bird-ways  should  never  for- 
get this.  The  fly-catcher  soon  took  a  stand 
wherefrom  to  observe  me,  and,  if  intently 
staring  at  me  for  thirty  seconds  was  not  curi- 
osity, what  shall  we  call  it?  Is  it  fair  to 
explain  away  everything  by  calling  it  mere 
coincidence  ?  It  is  a  common  practice,  and 
about  as  logical  as  the  old  cry  of  "  instinct" 
when  I  went  to  school.  To  have  said,  when 
I  was  a  boy,  that  a  bird  could  think  and  could 
communicate  ideas  to  another  of  its  kind, 
would  have  brought  down  ridicule  upon  my 
head  out  of  school,  and  brought  down  some- 
thing more  weighty  if  the  idea  had  been  ex- 
pressed in  a  "  composition."  I  speak  from 
experience. 

To  return  to  the  cheerier  subject  of  curi- 
osity in  birds :  our  large  hawks  have  it  to  a 
marked  degree,  and  advantage  can  be  taken  of 
this  facl:  if  you  wish  to  trap  them.  I  have 
found  this  particularly  true  in  winter,  when 
there  is  a  general  covering  of  the  ground  with 
snow.  Food,  of  course,  is  not  then  quite  so 
plenty,  but  this  does  not  explain  the  matter. 
An  empty  steel  trap  on  the  top  of  a  hay-stack 
is  quite  as  likely  to  be  tampered  with  as  when 
baited  with  a  mouse.  The  hawk  will  walk 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top        17 

all  around  it,  and  then  put  out  one  foot  and 
touch  it  here  and  there.  If  we  can  judge  from 
the  bird's  aftions,  the  question,  What  is  it, 
anyway  ?  is  running  through  its  mind.  I  once 
played  a  trick  upon  a  splendid  black  hawk  that 
had  been  mousing  over  the  fields  for  half  the 
winter.  It  often  perched  upon  a  stack  of 
straw  instead  of  the  lone  hickory  near  by. 
Early  one  morning  I  placed  a  plump  meadow- 
mouse  on  the  very  top  of  the  stack,  to  which 
I  had  attached  a  dozen  long  strands  of  bright- 
red  woollen  yarn  and  a  bladder  that  I  had  in- 
flated. This  was  secured  to  the  mouse  by  a 
silk  cord,  and  all  were  so  concealed  by  the 
snow  and  straw  that  the  hawk  noticed  the 
mouse  only.  The  bird  was  suspicious  at  first : 
it  was  too  unusual  for  a  mouse  not  to  move 
when  a  hawk  hovered  above  it.  Then  the 
bird  alighted  on  the  stack  and  walked  about 
the  mouse,  pecking  at  it  once,  but  not  touch- 
ing it.  Then  putting  out  one  foot,  he  seized 
it  with  a  firm  grip,  the  talons  passing  through 
the  carcass,  and  at  the  same  time  spread  his 
wings  and  moved  slowly  towards  the  lone 
hickory  that  towered  near  by.  I  was  near 
enough  to  see  every  movement.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  the  hawk  did  not  look  down  at  first, 
b  2* 


1 8       Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

and  saw  nothing  of  the  streaming  threads  and 
bobbing  bladder;  but  it  did  a  moment  later, 
and  then  what  a  quickening  of  wings  and 
hasty  mounting  upward !  The  hawk  was 
frightened,  and  gave  a  violent  jerk  with  one 
foot,  as  if  to  disengage  the  mouse,  but  it  was 
ineffectual.  The  sharp  claws  had  too  strong 
a  hold,  and  the  effeft  was  only  to  more  vio- 
lently bob  the  bladder.  Then  the  hawk 
screamed  and  dashed  into  the  trees  near  by, 
and  was  out  of  sight. 

A  curious  and  disappointing  occurrence, 
while  sitting  aloft,  was  the  frequent  dis- 
covery of  my  presence  by  birds  and  their 
sudden  right-about  movement  and  departure. 
Occasionally  I  could  see  them  coming  as  if  di- 
rectly towards  me,  but  their  keen  eyes  noticed 
the  unusual  objeft,  and  they  would  dart  off 
with  a  promptness  that  showed  how  com- 
pletely at  home  they  were  while  on  the  wing. 
Even  the  bluebirds,  usually  so  tame,  had 
their  misgivings,  and  came  to  rest  in  other 
trees.  But  if  the  birds  were  not  always  about 
and  above  me,  there  were  many  below,  and  the 
sweet  song  of  the  wood-robin  from  the  tangled 
underbrush  seemed  clearer  and  purer  than 
when  sifted  through  a  wilderness  of  leaves. 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top         19 

It  was  not  until  noon  that  the  wood  and 
open  fields  became  silent  or  nearly  so,  for  the 
red-eye  came  continually,  and,  whether  insecl:- 
hunting  in  the  tree  or  on  the  wing,  it  seemed 
never  to  cease  its  singing,  or  querulous  cry, 
which  more  aptly  describes  its  utterance.  To 
hear  this  sound  throughout  a  long  summer  day 
is  depressing,  particularly  if  you  hear  nothing 
else,  for  the  steady  hum  of  insecVlife  hardly 
passes  for  sound.  It  was  only  when  I  lis- 
tened for  it  that  I  was  aware  that  millions  of 
tiny  creatures  were  filling  the  air  with  a  hum- 
ming that  varied  only  as  the  light  breeze  car- 
ried it  away  or  brought  it  nearer  and  clearer 
than  before.  There  is  a  vast  difference  be- 
tween absolute  and  comparative  or  apparent 
silence.  The  former  is  scarcely  ever  a  con- 
dition of  the  open  country  unless  during  a 
still,  cold  winter  night,  and  never  of  one  of 
our  ordinary  woodland  tra&s.  We  do  find  it, 
however,  in  the  cedar  swamps  and  pine-land, 
even  during  summer.  I  have  often  stood  in 
"  the  pines"  of  Southern  New  Jersey  and 
tried  to  deleft  some  sound  other  than  that 
of  my  own  breathing,  but  in  vain.  Not 
a  twig  stirred.  The  dark  waters  of  the  pools 
were  motionless ;  even  the  scattered  clouds 


20       Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

above  were  at  rest.  It  was  to  be  absolutely 
alone,  as  if  the  only  living  creature  upon 
earth.  But  ere  long  a  gentle  breeze  would 
spring  up,  there  was  a  light  and  airy  trem- 
bling of  the  pines,  and  the  monotone  of  a 
whispered  sigh  filled  the  forest.  Even  this 
was  a  relief,  and  what  a  joy  if  some  lonely  bird 
passed  by  and  even  lisped  of  its  presence ! 
The  dee-dee  of  a  titmouse  at  such  a  time  was 
sweeter  music  than  the  choral  service  that 
heralds  the  coming  of  a  bright  June  morning. 
At  noon,  the  day  being  torrid,  there  was 
comparative  silence,  and  yet  as  I  looked  about 
me  I  saw  ceaseless  aflivity  in  a  small  way. 
The  ants  were  still  journeying,  and  red  ad- 
miral and  yellow  swallow-tailed  butterflies 
came  near,  and  the  latter  even  passed  high 
overhead  and  mingled  with  the  chimney- 
swifts.  Had  I  been  on  the  ground,  walking 
instead  -of  waiting,  I  should  have  sought  some 
sheltered  spot  and  rested,  taking  a  hint  from 
much  of  the  wild  life  I  was  watching. 

AT  NOONTIDE. 

Where  cluster  oaks  and  runs  the  rapid  brook, 
Repose  the  jutting  rocks  beneath  the  ferns  j 

Here  seeks  the  thrush  his  hidden  leafy  nook, 
And  wandering  squirrel  to  his  hole  returns. 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top        21 

Afar  the  steaming  river  slowly  wends 
Its  tortuous  way  to  mingle  with  the  sea } 

No  cheerful  voice  its  languid  course  attends  j 
The  blight  of  silence  rests  upon  the  lea. 

Where  the  wide  meadow  spreads  its  wealth  of  weeds, 
Where  the  rank  harvest  waves  above  the  field) 

The  testy  hornet  in  his  anger  speeds, 

And  stolid  beetle  bears  his  brazen  shield. 

Give  them  the  glowing,  fiery  world  they  love, 
Give  me  the  cool  retreat  beside  the  stream ; 

While  sweeps  the  sun  the  noontide  sky  above, 
Here  would  I  linger  with  the  birds  and  dream. 

And  now  what  of  the  tree  itself?  Here 
I  have  been  the  better  part  of  a  long  fore- 
noon, and  scarcely  given  this  fine  young  oak 
a  thought.  A  young  oak,  yet  a  good  deal 
older  than  its  burden;  an  oak  that  was  an 
acorn  when  the  century  was  new,  and  now 
a  sturdy  growth  full  sixty  feet  high,  straight 
of  stem  to  its  undermost  branches  and  shapely 
everywhere.  Such  trees  are  not  remarkable 
of  themselves,  though  things  of  beauty,  but 
at  times  how  suggestive !  Think  of  pre- 
Columbian  America ;  then  there  were  oaks  to 
make  men  marvel.  ««  There  were  giants  in 
those  days."  Occasionally  we  meet  with 


22       Travels  in  a  Tree- top 

them  even  now.  A  year  ago  I  camped  on 
the  shore  of  Chesapeake  Bay  near  an  oak 
that  measured  eighteen  feet  six  inches  in 
circumference  four  feet  from  the  ground,  and 
in  St.  Paul's  church-yard,  not  a  great  way 
off,  are  five  big  oaks,  one  of  which  is  twenty 
feet  around  shoulder  high  from  the  roots. 
Such  trees  are  very  old.  The  church-yard 
was  enclosed  two  centuries  ago,  and  these 
were  big  trees  then,  and  so  older  by  far  than 
any  monument  of  white  men  on  the  continent, 
except  possible  traces  of  the  Norsemen.  If 
a  tree  such  as  this  in  which  I  have  been  sit- 
ting is  full  to  overflowing  with  suggestiveness, 
how  much  more  so  a  noble  patriarch  like  that 
upon  the  bay  shore  !  It  is  usually  not  easy  to 
realize  the  dimensions  of  a  huge  tree  by 
merely  looking  at  it,  but  this  mammoth  im- 
pressed one  at  first  sight.  The  branches  were 
themselves  great  trees,  and  together  cast  a  cir- 
cular patch  of  shade,  at  noon,  three  paces 
more  than  one  hundred  feet  across.  As  a 
tree  in  which  to  ramble  none  could  have 
been  better  shaped.  The  lowest  branches 
were  less  than  twenty  feet  from  the  ground, 
and  after  reaching  horizontally  a  long  way, 
curved  upward  and  again  outward,  dividing 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top        23 

finally  into  the  leaf-bearing  twigs.  Course 
after  course  continued  in  this  way,  the  size 
decreasing  gradually,  and  the  whole  forming, 
as  seen  from  a  distance,  a  magnificent  dome- 
shaped  mass.  Comparisons  with  the  tree's 
surroundings  were  full  of  suggestiveness. 
The  ground  immediately  about  was  densely 
covered  with  rank  ferns  and  the  acorn  sprouts 
of  one  or  two  years'  growth.  Yet,  where  they 
were,  it  seemed  but  a  smoothly-shaven  lawn, 
so  insignificant  were  they  when  seen  with  the 
tree ;  and  the  sproutland  beyond,  which 
would  otherwise  have  been  a  wood,  was  ab- 
solutely insignificant.  Yet,  in  truth,  every- 
thing here  was  on  a  grand  scale.  The  ferns 
were  tall,  and  to  prove  it  I  sat  upon  the 
ground  among  them  and  so  shut  out  all  view 
of  the  great  tree  and  its  surroundings.  I 
spent  many  hours  seated  upon  different 
branches  of  this  oak,  and  every  one  had  feat- 
ures all  its  own.  From  those  nearest  the 
ground  I  surveyed  the  bird-life  in  the  thicket 
beneath,  and  was  entertained  by  a  pair  of 
nesting  cardinal  red-birds  that  came  and  went 
as  freely  as  if  quite  alone,  and  whistled  cheer- 
fully morning,  noon,  and  night.  I  fancied  I 
made  friends  with  these  birds,  for  early  one 


24       Travels  in  a  Tree- top 

morning  the  male  bird  came  to  camp,  as  if 
to  inspect  my  nest,  thinking  I  was  not  up, 
and  he  expressed  his  favorable  opinion  in 
most  glowing  terms.  A  pair  of  doves,  too, 
had  a  nest  in  sight,  and  their  melancholy  coo- 
ing seemed  out  of  tune  here,  where  Nature 
had  done  her  work  so  well.  Once,  at  least, 
while  I  was  there,  the  bald  eagle  came  for  a 
few  moments,  and,  big  bird  as  he  is,  was  not 
conspicuous,  and  had  not  a  flash  of  sunlight 
fallen  upon  his  yellow  beak  and  white  head, 
I  should  not  have  been  aware  of  his  presence, 
as  he  certainly  was  not  of  mine.  What  I 
took  to  be  a  duck-hawk,  a  few  days  later,  in- 
terested me  much  more.  He  was  a  splendid 
bird,  and  tarried  but  a  short  time.  The 
leaves  so  concealed  him  that  I  was  not  sure, 
having  no  field-glass  at  the  time,  but  do  not 
think  I  was  mistaken.  The  eagle  did  not 
appear  to  disturb  the  fish-hawk's  temper  in 
the  least,  but  the  great  hawk  did,  and  he 
was  much  excited  until  the  bird  disappeared 
in  the  steam  and  smoke  that  as  a  great  cloud 
rested  above  Baltimore. 

The  birds  of  this  retired  spot  may  be 
divided  into  two  classes, — those  of  the  oak 
and  of  the  sproutland  growths  about  it,  and 


Travels  in  a  Tree- top        25 

the  birds  of  the  air,  principally  swallows, 
which  hung  over  the  tree  as  a  trembling 
cloud.  Never  were  swallows  more  numer- 
ous, except  when  flocked  prior  to  migration. 
In  the  tree  and  bushes  were  always  many 
birds,  yet  often  they  were  far  from  each 
other.  This  gave  me  an  excellent  idea  of 
what  a  great  oak  really  is.  Birds  quite  out  of 
sight  and  hearing  of  each  other  were  resting 
on  branches  from  the  same  trunk.  Although 
the  middle  of  July,  there  was  no  lack  of 
song,  and  second  nesting  of  many  familiar 
birds  is,  I  judge,  more  common  in  Maryland 
than  in  New  Jersey.  Of  all  the  birds  that 
came,  the  little  green  herons  were  the  most 
amusing.  A  pair  doubtless  had  a  nest  near 
by,  or  young  that  were  not  yet  on  the 
wing.  They  walked  sedately  along  the  level 
branches,  as  a  man  might  pace  up  and  down 
his  study,  buried  in  deep  thought.  I  listened 
carefully  for  some  expression  of  content,  but 
they  made  no  sound  except  when  they  were 
startled  and  flew  off.  I  was  much  surprised 
to  find  the  beach-birds  occasionally  darting 
among  the  branches,  and  once  a  spotted  sand- 
piper rested  a  moment  near  me.  These  birds 
we  associate  with  water  and  the  open  country, 
B  3 


26       Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

although  this  species  is  less  aquatic  than  its 
fellows.  They  were  always  in  sight  from 
the  door  of  my  tent,  and  always  an  earlier 
bird  than  I.  I  recall  now  standing  upon  the 
beach  long  before  sunrise,  marking  the  prom- 
ises of  the  coming  day,  as  I  interpreted  them. 
The  fish-hawks  were  ahead  of  me ;  so,  too, 
the  little  sand-pipers.  Their  piping  at  this 
time  was  very  clear  and  musical.  It  was  a 
delightful  accompaniment  to  the  rippling 
water.  The  dear  old  song-sparrows  were 
quiet,  and  I  was  very  glad ;  but  with  the 
first  flooding  of  the  sea  with  sunlight  they 
all  sang  out,  and  the  Chesapeake  was  afar 
off  and  I  in  the  home  meadows  on  the  Dela- 
ware. I  prefer  novelty  when  away.  It  is 
well  to  utterly  forget,  at  times,  that  which 
we  most  prize.  What  boots  it  to  stand  on 
the  hill-top,  if  your  thoughts  are  forever  in 
the  lowlands?  Twice,  from  the  branches 
of  the  old  oak,  I  saw  a  splendid  sunset,  but 
nothing  equal  to  the  sunrise  of  to-day.  With 
many  a  matter  of  this  life  the  beginning  is 
better  than  the  end.  We  had  a  superb  sun- 
set last  night.  The  color  was  gorgeous,  but 
it  was  plain  and  commonplace  compared  to 
the  sunrise  of  to-day.  Perhaps  no  tint  was 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top        27 

really  brighter  in  one  case  than  in  the  other, 
but  my  mind  was.  The  sunset  was  too 
closely  linked  with  the  death  of  the  day ;  there 
was  the  idea  of  a  grand  finale  before  the 
curtain  drops,  and  this  tends  to  dull  enthu- 
siasm. It  is  not  so  with  sunrise.  It  is  all 
freshness, — a  matter  of  birth,  of  beginning, 
of  a  new  trial  of  life, — and  with  so  happy  an 
entrance,  the  exit  should  be  one  of  gladness 
only ;  but  there  is  no  trace  of  pity  in  Nature. 
In  awful  certainty  the  night  cometh. 

I  was  not  surprised  at  every  visit  to  this 
tree  to  find  some  new  form  of  life  resting  on 
its  branches.  A  beautiful  garter-snake  had 
reached  a  low  branch  by  climbing  to  it  from 
a  sapling  that  reached  a  little  above  it.  There 
was  no  break  in  the  highway  that  led  to 
its  very  summit.  The  grass  leaned  upon 
ferns,  these  upon  shrubs,  these  again  upon 
saplings,  and  so  the  tree  was  reached.  Any 
creeping  thing  could  have  climbed  just  eighty 
feet  above  the  earth  with  far  less  danger  than 
men  encounter  clambering  over  hills. 

And  not  only  a  zoological  garden  was  this 
and  is  every  other  old  tree,  but  the  oak  had 
its  botanic  garden  as  well.  When  we  con- 
sider that  many  of  the  branches  were  so  wide 


28       Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

and  level  that  one  could  walk  upon  them,  it  is 
not  strange  that  earth,  dead  leaves,  and  water 
should  lodge  in  many  places.  Indeed,  besides 
the  two  gardens  I  have  mentioned,  the  oak 
had  also  an  aquarium.  But  I  cannot  go 
into  particulars.  The  parasitic  plant-life — 
not  truly  such,  like  the  mistletoe — was  a 
striking  feature.  Maple  seeds  had  lodged  and 
sprouted,  and  in  a  saucer-shaped  depression 
where  dust  and  water  had  lodged  a  starved 
hawkweed  had  got  so  far  towards  maturity 
as  to  be  in  bud. 


It  may  appear  as  utter  foolishness  to  others, 
but  I  believe  that  trees  might  in  time  become 
tiresome.  Whether  in  leaf  or  bare  of  foli- 
age, there  is  a  fixedness  that  palls  at  last. 
We  are  given  to  looking  from  the  tree  to 
the  world  beyond ;  to  hurrying  from  beneath 
their  branches  to  the  open  country.  To  live 
in  a  dense  forest  is  akin  to  living  in  a  great 
city.  There  is  a  sense  of  confinement  against 
which,  sooner  or  later,  we  are  sure  to  rebel. 
We  long  for  change.  The  man  who  is  per- 
feftly  satisfied  has  no  knowledge  of  what  satis- 
faction really  is.  Logical  or  not,  I  turned 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top        29 

my  attention  from  the  tree  at  last,  and  thought, 
What  of  the  outlook?  Direftly  north,  in 
the  shallow  basin,  hemmed  in  by  low  hills, 
lies  the  town.  A  cloud  of  smoke  and  steam 
rests  over  it,  and  barely  above  it  reach  the 
church-spires  and  tall  factory  chimneys,  as  if 
the  place  was  struggling  to  be  free,  but  only 
had  its  finger-tips  out  of  the  mire  of  the 
town,  of  which  I  know  but  little.  My  won- 
der is  that  so  many  people  stay  there,  and, 
stranger  still,  wild  life  not  only  crowds  its 
outskirts,  but  ventures  into  its  very  midst. 
In  one  town,  not  far  away,  I  found  the 
nests  of  seventeen  species  of  birds,  but  then 
there  was  a  large  old  cemetery  and  a  mill- 
pond  within  its  boundaries.  Time  was  when 
through  the  town  before  me  there  flowed  a 
creek,  and  a  pretty  wood  flourished  along  its 
south  bank.  The  creek  is  now  a  sewer,  and 
an  open  one  at  that,  and  yet  the  musk-rat 
cannot  quite  make  up  his  mind  to  leave  it. 
Stranger  than  this  was  seeing  recently,  in  a 
small  creek  discolored  by  a  dyeing  establish- 
ment, a  little  brown  diver.  How  it  could 
bring  itself  to  swim  in  such  filth  must  re- 
main a  mystery.  A  queer  old  character  that 
had  lived  all  his  life  in  the  country  once  said 


30       Travels  in  a  Tree- top 

of  the  nearest  town,  "  It  is  a  good  place 
to  dump  what  we  don't  want  on  the  farm." 
This  old  fellow  would  always  drive  me 
out  of  his  orchard  when  apples  were  ripe, 
but  I  liked  him  for  the  sentiment  I  have 
quoted. 

I  am  out  of  town  now,  and  what  of  the 
world  in  another  direction  ?  Turning  to  the 
east,  I  have  farm  after  farm  before  me ;  all 
different,  yet  with  a  strong  family  likeness. 
This  region  was  taken  up  by  English  Quakers 
about  1670  and  a  little  later,  and  the  houses 
they  built  were  as  much  alike  as  are  these 
people  in  their  apparel.  The  second  set  of 
buildings  were  larger  only  and  no  less  severely 
plain  ;  but  immediately  preceding  the  Revo- 
lution there  were  some  very  substantial  man- 
sions erected.  From  my  perch  in  the  tree- 
top  I  cannot  see  any  of  the  houses  distinctly, 
but  locate  them  all  by  the  group  of  Weymouth 
pines  in  front  and  sometimes  both  before  and 
behind  them.  The  old-time  Lombardy  pop- 
lar was  the  tree  of  the  door-yards  at  first,  but 
these,  in  this  neighborhood,  have  well-nigh 
all  died  out,  and  the  pines  replace  them. 
One  farm-house  is  vividly  pictured  before  me, 
although  quite  out  of  sight.  The  owner 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top        3 1 

made  it  a  home  for  such  birds  as  might  choose 
to  come,  as  well  as  for  himself,  and  what  royal 
days  have  been  spent  there!  There  was 
no  one  feature  to  attract  instant  attention  as 
you  approached  the  house.  The  trees  were 
thrifty,  the  shrubbery  healthy,  the  roses  vig- 
orous, and  the  flowering  plants  judiciously  se- 
lefted;  but  what  did  strike  the  visitor  was 
the  wealth  of  bird-life.  For  once  let  me  cat- 
alogue what  I  have  seen  in  and  about  one 
door-yard  and  what  should  be  about  every 
one  in  the  land.  At  the  end  of  the  house, 
and  very  near  the  corner  of  the  long  portico, 
stood  a  martin-box,  occupied  by  the  birds  for 
which  it  was  intended.  In  the  porch,  so  that 
you  could  reach  it  with  your  hand,  was  a 
wren's  nest,  and  what  a  strange  house  it  had  ! 
It  was  a  huge  plaster  cast  of  a  lion's  head,  and 
between  the  grim  teeth  the  bird  passed  and  re- 
passed  continually.  It  promenaded  at  times 
on  the  lion's  tongue,  and  sang  triumphantly 
while  perched  upon  an  eyebrow.  That  wren 
certainly  saw  nothing  animal-like  in  the  plas- 
ter cast  as  it  was,  and  I  have  wondered  if  it 
would  have  been  equally  free  with  a  stuffed 
head  of  the  animal.  My  many  experiments 
with  animals,  as  to  their  recognition  of  ani- 


32       Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

mals  as  pictured,  have  demonstrated  every- 
thing, and  so,  I  am  afraid  I  must  admit,  noth- 
ing. In  the  woodbine  on  the  portico  were 
two  nests, — a  robin's  and  a  chipping-spar- 
row's.  These  were  close  to  each  other,  and 
once,  when  sitting  in  a  rocking-chair,  I  swayed 
the  woodbine  to  and  fro  without  disturbing 
either  bird.  In  the  garden  were  a  mocking- 
bird, cat-bird,  thistle-finch,  song-sparrow, 
brown  thrush,  yellow-breasted  chat,  and  red- 
eyed  vireo.  In  the  trees  I  saw  a  great-crested 
fly-catcher,  purple  grakle,  a  redstart,  spotted 
warbler,  and  another  I  failed  to  identify.  In 
the  field  beyond  the  garden  were  red-winged 
blackbirds  and  quail,  and  beyond,  crows,  fish- 
hawks,  and  turkey-buzzards  were  in  the  air ; 
and,  as  the  day  closed  and  the  pleasant  sights 
were  shut  out,  I  heard  the  clear  call  of  the 
kill-deer  plover  as  they  passed  overhead,  heard 
it  until  it  mingled  with  my  dreams.  "  Provi- 
dence Farm"  is  indeed  well  named,  for  the 
birdy  blessing  of  Providence  rests  upon  it ; 
but  were  men  more  given  to  considering  the 
ways  and  wants  of  wild  life,  we  might  find 
such  pleasant  places  on  every  hand.  Farms 
appear  to  be  growing  less  farm-like.  The 
sweet  simplicity  of  colonial  days  has  been 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top        33 

well-nigh  obliterated,  and  nothing  really  bet- 
ter has  replaced  it.  On  the  other  hand,  a 
modern  "country  place,"  where  Nature  is 
pared  down  until  nothing  but  the  foundation- 
rocks  remain,  is,  to  say  the  least,  an  eyesore. 
There  is  more  pleasure  and  profit  in  an  Indian 
trail  than  in  an  asphaltum  driveway. 

Westward  lie  the  meadows,  and  beyond 
them  the  river.  Seen  as  a  whole,  they  are 
beautiful  and,  like  all  of  Nature's  work,  will 
bear  close  inspection.  The  bird's-eye  view 
to-day  was  too  comprehensive  to  be  alto- 
gether enjoyable :  it  was  bewildering.  How 
completely  such  a  tract  epitomizes  a  conti- 
nent !  The  little  creek  is  a  river ;  the  hil- 
lock, a  mountain ;  the  brushland,  a  forest ; 
the  plowed  traft,  a  desert.  If  this  fa£t  were 
not  so  generally  forgotten  we  would  be  better 
content  with  what  is  immediately  about  us. 
Mere  bigness  is  not  everything.  So,  too, 
with  animal  life.  We  spend  time  and  money 
to  see  the  creatures  caged  in  a  menagerie,  and 
never  see  the  uncaged  ones  in  the  thicket  be- 
hind the  house.  Every  lion  must  roar,  or  we 
have  not  seen  the  show ;  a  lion  rampant  is 
everything,  a  lion  couchant,  nothing.  There 
was  no  visible  violence  in  the  meadows  to- 


34       Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

day;  Nature  was  couchant,  and  I  was  thankful. 
When  the  tempest  drives  over  the  land  I  want 
my  snug  harbor  by  the  chimney-throat.  The 
sparks  can  fly  upward  to  join  the  storm  if  they 
will.  The  storms  I  enjoy  are  matters  of  hearsay. 

Take  up  a  ponderous  government  quarto 
of  the  geological  survey  and  glance  over  the 
splendid  plates  of  remarkable  rocks,  canons, 
and  high  hills,  and  then  look  out  of  your 
window  at  the  fields  and  meadow.  What  a 
contrast !  Yes,  a  decided  one,  and  yet  if 
you  take  an  open-eyed  walk  you  will  find  a 
good  deal  of  the  same  thing,  but  on  a  smaller 
scale.  You  have  not  thought  of  it  before ; 
that  is  all.  I  put  this  matter  to  a  practical 
test  not  long  ago,  and  was  satisfied  with  the 
result.  The  last  plate  had  been  looked  at 
and  the  book  was  closed  with  a  sigh,  and  a 
restless  youth,  looking  over  the  wide  range 
of  fields  before  him,  was  thinking  of  the 
grand  mountains,  strange  deserts,  and  deep 
canons  pi&ured  in  the  volume  on  his  lap,  and 
comparing  such  a  country  with  the  monoto- 
nous surroundings  of  his  home. 

"  What  a  stupid  place  this  part  of  the 
world  is  !"  he  said  at  last.  "  I  wish  I  could 
go  out  West." 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top       35 

"  Perhaps  it  is  not  so  stupid  as  it  looks," 
I  replied.  "  Let's  take  a  walk." 

I  knew  what  the  book  described  at  which 
the  lad  had  been  looking,  and  had  guessed 
his  thoughts.  We  started  for  a  ramble. 

"  Let  us  follow  this  little  brook  as  far  as 
we  can,"  I  suggested, «« and  see  what  a  stupid 
country  can  teach  us,"  purposely  quoting  my 
companion's  words,  with  a  little  emphasis. 

Not  fifty  rods  from  beautiful  old  trees  the 
collected  waters,  as  a  little  brook,  flowed 
over  an  outcropping  of  stiff  clay,  and  here 
we  voluntarily  paused,  for  what  one  of  us 
had  seen  a  hundred  times  before  was  now 
invested  with  new  interest.  There  was  here 
not  merely  a  smooth  scooping  out  of  a  mass 
of  the  clay,  to  allow  the  waters  to  pass  swiftly 
by ;  the  least  resisting  veins  or  strata,  those 
containing  the  largest  percentage  of  sand,  had 
yielded  quickly  and  been  deeply  gullied, 
while  elsewhere  the  stiff,  black  ridges,  often 
almost  perpendicular,  still  withstood  the  cur- 
rent, and,  confining  the  waters  to  narrow 
limits,  produced  a  series  of  miniature  rapids 
and  one  whirlpool  that  recalled  the  head- 
waters of  many  a  river. 

Near  by,  where,  when  swollen  by  heavy 


36        Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

rains,  the  brook  had  filled  the  little  valley, 
temporary  rivulets  had  rushed  with  fury  over 
the  clay,  and  cut  in  many  places  deep  and 
narrow  transverse  channels.  From  their  steep 
sides  projected  many  a  pebble  that  gave  us 
"overhanging  rocks,"  and  one  small  bowlder 
bridged  a  crevice  in  the  clay,  and  was  in  use 
at  the  time  as  a  highway  for  a  colony  of  ants. 
Near  it  stood  slender,  conical  pillars  of 
slightly  cemented  sand,  some  six  inches  in 
height,  and  every  one  capped  with  a  pebble 
of  greater  diameter  than  the  apex  of  the  sup- 
porting sand.  These  were  indeed  beautiful. 

"I  have  never  seen  them  before,"  re- 
marked the  boy. 

"  Very  likely,"  I  replied,  "  but  you  have 
crushed  them  under  foot  by  the  dozens." 
They  were  not  to  be  overlooked  now, 
though,  and  in  them  he  saw  perfect  repro- 
ductions of  wonderful  "monument  rocks" 
which  he  had  so  lately  seen  pictured  in  the 
ponderous  government  geological  report. 

Withdrawing  to  the  field  beyond,  where  a 
bird's-eye  view  of  the  brook's  course  could 
be  obtained,  we  had  spread  out  before  us  a 
miniature,  in  most  of  its  essentials,  of  a  canon 
country.  The  various  tints  of  the  clay  gave 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top        37 

the  many-colored  rocks ;  the  different  densi- 
ties of  the  several  strata  resulted  in  deep  or 
shallow  ravines,  fantastic  arches,  caverns,  and 
beetling  precipices.  On  a  ridiculously  small 
scale,  you  may  say.  True,  but  not  too  small 
for  the  eyes  of  him  who  is  anxious  to  learn. 
A  few  rods  farther  down  the  stream  we 
came  to  a  small  sandy  island  which  divided 
the  brook  and  made  a  pleasant  variety  after  a 
monotonous  course  through  nearly  level 
fields.  A  handful  of  the  sand  told  the  story. 
Here,  meeting  with  so  slight  an  obstruction 
as  a  projecting  root,  the  sandy  clays  from 
above  had  been  deposited  in  part,  and  year 
after  year,  as  the  island  grew,  the  crowded 
waters  had  encroached  upon  the  yielding 
banks  on  either  side,  and  made  here  quite  a 
wide  and  shallow  stream.  Small  as  it  was, 
this  little  sand-bar  had  the  characteristic  feat- 
ures of  all  islands.  The  water  rippled  along 
its  sides  and  gave  it  a  pretty  beach  of  sloping, 
snow-white  sand,  while  scarcely  more  than 
half  a  foot  inland  the  seeds  of  many  plants 
had  sprouted,  and  along  the  central  ridge  or 
backbone  the  sod  was  thick  set,  and  several 
acorns,  a  year  before,  had  sprouted  through 
it.  We  found  snails,  spiders,  and  inse&s 
4 


38        Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

abundant,  and  faint  footprints  showed  that 
it  was  not  overlooked  by  the  pretty  teetering 
sand-piper. 

Now  came  a  total  change.  Abruptly  turn- 
ing from  its  former  straightforward  course, 
the  brook  entered  a  low-lying  swamp, 
crowded  to  the  utmost  with  dense  growths 
of  tangled  vines  and  stunted  trees.  The 
water  was  no  longer  sparkling  and  colorless, 
but  amber-tinted,  and  in  many  a  shallow  pool 
looked  more  like  ink.  Life  here  appeared 
in  many  forms.  Small  mud-minnows,  turtles, 
and  snakes  were  found  in  the  gloomy,  weed- 
hidden  pools,  and  numberless  inse&s  crowded 
the  rank  growths  above  as  well  as  the  waters 
beneath.  The  mutual  dependence  of  vege- 
tation and  animal  life  was  here  very  striking. 
Previously  we  had  found  comparatively  little 
either  in  the  brook  or  about  it,  but  now  our 
eyes  were  gladdened  not  only  with  what  I 
have  mentioned,  but  birds,  too,  were  in  abun- 
dance. 

Bent  upon  freeing  my  native  county  from 
the  charge  of  stupidity,  I  led  the  way  through 
this  "  dismal  swamp."  It  was  no  easy  task. 
Nowhere  were  we  sure  of  our  footing,  and 
it  required  constant  leaping  from  root  to  root 


Travels  in  a  Tree- top        39 

of  the  larger  trees.  There  was  at  times  no 
well-defined  channel,  and  often  we  could  hear 
the  gurgling  waters  hurrying  beneath  our  feet, 
yet  catch  no  glimpse  of  them. 

Here,  too,  other  springs  welled  to  the  sur- 
face, and  the  augmented  volume  of  waters 
finally  left  the  swamp  a  stream  of  considerable 
size,  which,  after  a  tortuous  course  through 
many  fields,  entered  a  deep  and  narrow  ravine. 
After  untold  centuries  the  brook  has  worn 
away  the  surface  soil  over  which  it  originally 
flowed,  then  the  gravel  beneath,  and  so  down 
to  the  clay,  thirty  feet  below.  Upon  this 
now  rest  the  bowlders  and  such  coarser  mate- 
rial as  the  waters  could  not  transport. 

Clinging  to  the  trees  growing  upon  the 
sides  of  the  ravine,  we  closely  followed  the 
course  of  the  troubled,  bubbling,  foamy 
waters,  stopping  ever  and  anon  to  look  at 
the  exposed  sections  of  sand  and  gravel  here 
shown  in  curious  alternate  layers.  The 
meaning  of  the  word  "deposits,"  so  fre- 
quently met  with  in  descriptive  geology, 
was  made  plain,  and  when  we  noticed  of 
how  mixed  a  character  was  the  coarse  gravel, 
it  was  easy  to  comprehend  what  had  been 
read  of  that  most  interesting  phase  of  the 


4O       Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

world's  past  history,  the  glacial  epoch,  or 
great  ice  age.  The  gravel  was  no  longer  an 
unsuggestive  accumulation  of  pebbles,  but 
associated  rolled  and  water-worn  fragments 
of  a  hundred  different  rocks  that  by  the 
mighty  forces  of  ice  and  water  had  been 
brought  to  their  present  position  from  re- 
gions far  away. 

The  ravine  ended  at  the  meadows,  through 
which  the  waters  passed  with  unobstructed 
flow  "  to  join  the  brimming  river."  As  we 
stood  upon  the  bank  of  the  mighty  stream  I 
remarked,  "  This  is  a  stupid  country,  per- 
haps, but  it  has  some  merits."  I  think  the 
boy  thought  so,  too. 

The  meadows  are  such  a  comprehensive 
place  that  no  one  knows  where  to  begin,  if 
the  attempt  is  made  to  enumerate  their  feat- 
ures. There  is  such  a  blending  of  dry  land 
and  wet,  open  and  thicket-grown,  hedge  and 
brook  and  scattered  trees,  that  it  is  bewilder- 
ing if  you  do  not  choose  some  one  point 
for  close  inspection.  From  the  tree-top  I 
overlook  it  all,  and  try  in  vain  to  determine 
whether  the  azure  strip  of  flowering  iris  or 
the  flaunting  crimson  of  the  Turk's  cap  lilies 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top        41 

is  the  prettier.  Beyond,  in  damper  soil,  the 
glistening  yellow  of  the  sunflowers  is  really 
too  bright  to  be  beautiful ;  but  not  so  where 
the  water  is  hidden  by  the  huge  circular  leaves 
of  the  lotus.  They  are  majestic  as  well  as 
pretty,  and  the  sparse  bloom,  yellow  and 
rosy  pink,  is  even  the  more  conspicuous  by 
reason  of  its  background.  How  well  the 
birds  know  the  wild  meadow  trails  !  They 
have  not  forsaken  my  tree  and  its  surround- 
ings, but  for  one  here  I  see  a  dozen  there. 
Mere  inky  specks,  as  seen  from  my  point  of 
view,  but  I  know  them  as  marsh-wrens  and 
swamp-sparrows,  kingbirds  and  red-wings, 
that  will  soon  form  those  enormous  flocks 
that  add  so  marked  a  feature  to  the  autumn 
landscape.  It  needs  no  field-glass  to  mark 
down  the  passing  herons  that,  coming  from 
the  river-shore,  take  a  noontide  rest  in  the 
overgrown  marsh. 

I  had  once,  on  the  very  spot  at  which  I 
was  now  looking,  an  unlooked-for  adventure. 
For  want  of  something  better  to  do,  I  pushed 
my  way  into  the  weedy  marsh  until  I  reached 
a  prostrate  tree-trunk  that  during  the  last 
freshet  had  stranded  there.  It  was  a  wild 
place.  The  tall  rose-mallow  and  wavy  cat- 


42       Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

tail  were  far  above  my  head,  and  every  trace 
of  civilization  was  effectually  shut  out.  It 
was  as  much  a  wilderness  as  any  jungle  in 
the  tropics.  Nor  was  I  alone.  Not  a 
minute  elapsed  before  a  faint  squeak  told  me 
that  there  were  meadow-mice  in  the  hollow 
log  on  which  I  sat.  Then  the  rank  grass 
moved  and  a  least  bittern  came  into  view  and 
as  quickly  disappeared.  I  heard  continually 
the  cackle  of  the  king-rail,  and  the  liquid  twit- 
tering of  the  marsh-wrens  was  a  delight.  The 
huge  globular  nests  of  these  birds  were  every- 
where about  me  ;  but  the  birds  did  not  think 
of  me  as  having  any  evil  designs  upon  them, 
so  they  came  and  went  as  freely  as  if  alone. 
This  is  bird-viewing  that  one  too  seldom 
enjoys  nowadays.  Often,  and  very  suddenly, 
all  sound  ceased  and  every  bird  disappeared. 
I  did  not  recognize  the  cause  at  first,  but  was 
enlightened  a  moment  later.  A  large  bird 
passed  over,  and  its  very  shadow  frightened 
the  little  marsh-dwellers.  If  not,  the  shadow 
and  fright  were  a  coincidence  several  times 
that  morning.  The  day,  for  me,  ended  with 
the  unusual  chance  of  a  close  encounter  with 
a  great  blue  heron.  I  saw  the  bird  hover  for 
a  moment  direftly  overhead,  and  then,  let- 


Travels  in  a  Tree- top        43 

ting  its  legs  drop,  it  descended  with  lead-like 
rapidity.  I  leaned  backward  to  avoid  it,  and 
could  have  touched  the  bird  when  it  reached 
the  ground,  it  was  so  near.  I  shall  never 
know  which  was  the  more  astonished.  Cer- 
tainly, had  it  chosen,  it  could  have  stabbed 
me  through  and  through. 

I  was  glad  to  be  again  on  drier  land  and  in 
open  country.  There  had  been  adventure 
enough ;  and  yet,  as  seen  from  a  distance, 
this  bit  of  marsh  was  but  weeds  and  water. 

Southward  there  stands  the  remnant  of  a 
forest :  second-  and  third-growth  woodland 
usually ;  for  trees  of  really  great  age  are  now 
generally  alone.  I  can  see  from  where  I  sit 
three  primeval  beeches  that  are  known  to 
be  over  two  centuries  old,  and  not  far  away 
towered  one  giant  tulip-tree  that  since  the 
country's  earliest  settlement  had  stood  like  a 
faithful  sentinel,  guarding  the  south  bank  of 
a  nameless  spring  brook.  Ever  a  thing  of 
beauty,  it  shone  with  added  splendor  at  night, 
when  the  rising  full  moon  rested  in  its  arms, 
as  if  weary  at  the  very  outset  of  her  journey. 
My  grandfather  told  me  that  in  his  boyhood 
it  was  known  as  the  "  Indian  tree,"  because 
a  basket-maker  and  his  squaw  had  a  wigwam 


44        Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

there.  That  was  a  century  ago,  and  often, 
of  late  years,  I  have  hunted  on  the  spot 
for  some  trace  of  these  redskins,  but  found 
nothing,  although  all  about,  in  every  field, 
were  old  Indian  relics,  even  their  cherished 
tobacco-pipes.  Small,  recent  growths  of 
timber,  even  where  they  have  succeeded  an 
ancient  forest,  are  not,  as  a  rule,  attractive. 
Their  newness  is  too  evident,  and,  except 
for  a  few  passing  birds,  they  are  not  apt  to 
harbor  much  wild  life.  As  I  look  at  the 
mingled  foliage  of  oaks  and  elms,  beeches, 
hickories,  and  wild  cherry,  I  give  little  heed 
to  that  before  me  and  recall  forests  worthy 
of  the  name,  doing  precisely  what  I  have 
declared  unwise.  A  naturalist  could  find 
more  material  in  these  few  acres  of  wood- 
land than  he  could  "work  up"  in  a  lifetime. 
I  have  underrated  them.  From  the  little 
thicket  of  blackberry  vines  I  see  a  rabbit 
slowly  loping,  as  if  in  search  of  food.  It  is 
a  full-grown  fellow,  and  suggests  the  round 
of  the  traps  in  late  autumn  and  the  woods  in 
winter. 

I  never  knew  a  boy  brought  up  in  the 
country  who  was  not  at  one  time  an  enthu- 
siastic trapper.  Just  as  mankind  in  the  in- 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top        45 

fancy  of  the  world  were  forced  to  pit  their 
energy  and  skill  against  the  cunning  of  the 
animals  needed  for  food  or  of  such  that  by 
reason  of  their  fierceness  endangered  human 
life,  so  the  country  boy  of  to-day  puts  his 
intelligence  to  work  to  circumvent  the  supe- 
riority of  such  animal  life  as  by  fleetness  of 
foot  or  stroke  of  wing  can  avoid  the  pursuer. 
It  is  a  question  largely  of  brain  against  ana- 
tomical structure.  No  Indian,  even,  ever 
outran  a  deer,  nor  savage  anywhere  by  mere 
bodily  exertion  stopped  the  flight  of  a  bird. 
Men  were  all  sportsmen,  in  a  sense,  when 
sport,  as  we  call  it,  was  necessary  to  human 
existence.  As  centuries  rolled  by,  such 
animals  and  birds  as  came  in  daily  contaft 
with  man  necessarily  had  their  sleepy  wits 
aroused,  and  now  it  is  a  case  of  cunning 
against  cunning.  We  are  all  familiar  with 
such  phrases  as  "  wild  as  a  hawk"  and  "  shy 
as  a  deer."  In  the  morning  of  man's  career 
on  earth  there  were  no  such  words  as  "  shy" 
and  "  wild."  They  came  into  use,  as  words 
are  constantly  coming  into  our  language,  be- 
cause circumstances  make  them  a  necessity ; 
and  as  men  were  trappers  before  they  were 
traders  or  tillers  of  the  field,  so  the  words 


46        Travels  in  a  Tree- top 

are  old,  and  while  animal  life  lasts  they  will 
be  retained. 

Nowadays  we  generally  outgrow  this  love 
of  trapping,  or  it  remains  in  the  love  of  sport 
with  gun  or  rod.  But,  old  Izaak  Walton  and 
Frank  Forrester  to  the  contrary  notwithstand- 
ing, I  hold  that  nothing  in  fishing  or  shooting 
has  that  freshness,  that  thrilling  excitement, 
that  close  touch  with  nature,  that  clings  to 
our  early  days,  when,  in  autumn  and  winter, 
we  went  the  round  of  the  traps.  How 
through  the  long  night  we  had  visions  of  the 
rabbit  cautiously  approaching  the  box-trap 
on  the  edge  of  the  swamp  !  How  clearly  we 
saw  in  the  corner  of  the  weedy  old  worm- 
fence  the  stupid  opossum  bungling  along,  and 
awoke  with  a  start  as  the  clumsy  creature 
sprang  the  trap  from  the  outside  !  I  pity  the 
boy  who  has  not  had  such  a  distressing  dream. 

No  boy  ever  turned  out  before  sunrise  with 
a  smiling  countenance  to  milk  or  help  in  any 
way  with  farm  work  ;  but  how  different  when 
it  was  a  matter  of  the  traps  he  had  set  the 
night  before  !  The  anticipation  of  success  is 
an  all-sufficient  incentive,  and  neither  bitter 
cold  nor  driving  storm  deters  him.  Of  a 
winter  dawn  much  might  be  said.  No  boy 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top        47 

ever  was  abroad  so  early  that  the  squirrels 
were  not  before  him,  and  in  the  fading  light 
of  the  stars  he  will  hear  the  crows  cawing 
and  the  blue-jays  chattering  in  the  woods. 
To  the  naturalist,  of  course,  such  time  of 
day  is  full  of  suggestiveness  ;  but  the  general 
belief  that  it  is  a  proper  time  to  sleep  will 
never  be  given  up.  Indeed,  judging  others 
by  myself,  as  the  boy  gets  well  on  in  his  teens 
there  is  a  growing  disposition  to  let  the  traps 
go  until  broad  daylight  and  even  until  after 
breakfast.  This  is  unfortunate  in  two  ways  : 
there  is  a  likelihood  of  seeing  animal  life  in 
the  full  flush  of  activity  in  the  pre-sunlit  hours 
that  is  unknown  as  the  day  advances;  the 
night-prowlers  are  all  gone  to  their  dens,  and 
the  birds  that  roost  in  colonies  have  dispersed 
for  the  day.  One  seldom  overtakes  a  raccoon 
or  a  weasel  at  or  near  noontide,  and  in  the 
woods  where  a  thousand  robins  have  roosted 
there  may  now  not  be  one.  Then,  again, 
your  visit  to  the  traps  may  be  anticipated 
if  you  are  too  deliberate  in  starting  on  your 
rounds.  This  is  an  experience  that  no  boy 
of  spirit  can  calmly  undergo,  and  no  wonder. 
The  rude  box-trap  was  not  easy  to  make,  con- 
sidering the  usual  condition  of  tools  upon  a 


48        Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

farm.  The  hunt  for  likely  places  whereat  to 
set  it  had  been  real  labor.  The  long  tramp 
in  the  gloaming  when  tired  out  from  a  day 
at  school ;  the  early  tramp,  before  sunrise 
perhaps,  for  he  must  be  on  time  at  school  that 
morning, — all  this  is  to  be  considered ;  but 
if  success  crowns  the  effort,  all  is  well.  On 
the  other  hand,  to  find  that  some  rascal  has 
been  ahead  of  you  and  your  labor  has  gone 

for  nothing I  never  knew  a  boy  to  be 

a  saint  at  such  a  time. 

I  can  recall  a  well-marked  rabbit-path  I 
once  found,  half  a  mile  from  home,  and  with 
great  secrecy  carried  one  of  my  traps  to  the 
place.  It  was  on  the  next  farm,  and  so  I  had 
to  be  more  than  usually  careful.  Nothing 
could  be  done  in  daylight  for  fear  the  boys 
living  on  that  farm  would  find  me  out,  and 
this  sort  of  poaching  was  not  tolerated.  At 
first  I  was  successful,  catching  two  fine  rab- 
bits, and  then,  alas !  was  so  elated  that,  boy- 
like,  I  said  too  much.  Some  one  must  have 
tracked  me,  for  I  caught  no  more,  although  it 
was  evident  that  the  trap  had  been  disturbed. 
Straightway  I  suspected  treachery,  and  pre- 
pared for  revenge. 

Now,  auntie  had  a  fur  tippet,  or  "  boa," 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top        49 

as  she  called  it,  which  was  just  six  feet  long. 
The  moths  one  summer  had  ruined  it,  and  for 
some  time  it  had  been  lying  around  uncared 
for  and  a  plaything  for  the  younger  children. 
This  I  appropriated,  and  fastened  to  one  end 
of  it  a  rabbit's  head,  with  the  ears  wired  up 
and  with  huge  painted  marbles  bulging  from 
the  sockets  for  eyes.  It  was  a  startling  if  not 
life-like  creature. 

Armed  with  this,  I  started  after  dark  to  the 
trap,  and  soon  had  all  in  readiness  for  my  vic- 
tim. I  coiled  the  *'  boa"  into  the  rear  of  the 
box  and  placed  the  head  near  the  opening  of 
the  trap.  The  "  figure-of-four"  triggers  were 
laid  outside  in  such  a  way  as  to  suggest  that 
the  trap  had  been  sprung  by  an  animal.  Then 
I  went  home. 

The  next  morning  I  went  to  school  with- 
out visiting  the  spot,  fearing  I  might  meet 
with  the  supposed  oifender.  All  day  long  I 
wondered.  No  boy  had  any  marvellous  tale 
to  tell  and  no  one  looked  at  all  guilty.  There 
soon  came  over  me  a  feeling  that  perhaps  I 
had  played  a  trick  upon  myself,  and  by  sun- 
down I  was  rather  reluftant  to  determine  if 
anything  had  happened ;  but  go  I  did.  The 
trap  had  evidently  been  disturbed.  The 


50       Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

"  boa"  with  the  rabbit's  head  was  lying  at  full 
length  outside  and  the  bushes  were  broken  as 
if  a  bull  had  rushed  through  them.  But  who 
or  what  had  been  there  ? 

Two  days  of  most  distressing  doubt  passed, 
and  then  came  Saturday.  I  was  ill  at  ease  and 
took  no  pleasure  in  my  holiday ;  but  about 
noon  our  neighbor  came  over,  and  I  heard 
him  tell  grandfather  how,  on  Fifth-day,  while 
the  family  were  at  breakfast,  Bill,  the  bound 
boy,  came  rushing  into  the  room  and  ex- 
claimed, excitedly,  "Something  from  the 
menagerie's  broke  loose  and  got  in  the  rab- 
bit-trap !" 

I  had  had  my  revenge. 

A  wood,  to  be  at  its  best,  should  be  located 
on  the  shore  of  a  lake  or  river,  or,  perhaps 
better  still,  a  river  should  run  through  it. 
Here  are  my  impressions  of  such  a  wood,  from 
my  note-book  of  1892,  under  date  of  May  I  : 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  fitting  than 
to  take  a  May-day  outing  at  such  a  place. 
The  swift  current  of  the  Great  Egg  Harbor 
River  rolled  resistlessly  along,  its  waters  black 
as  night,  save  where,  over  the  pebbly  shal- 
lows, it  gleamed  like  polished  amber.  The 
wind  that  swayed  the  tall  crowns  of  the  tow- 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top        51 

ering  pines  made  fitting  music,  according  well 
with  the  rippling  laugh  of  the  fretted  river, 
while  heard  above  all  were  the  joyous  songs 
of  innumerable  warblers. 

We  had  placed  our  boat  upon  a  wagon  six 
miles  below  our  point  of  departure,  and  partly 
realized  on  our  way  what  this  pine  region 
really  was.  The  cedar  swamp,  the  oak 
openings,  the  arbutus  that  gave  color  to  the 
narrow  wagon-track,  the  absence  of  man's 
interference, — all  tended  to  give  us  the  full 
significance  of  that  most  suggestive  word,  wil- 
derness. We  needed  but  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  an  Indian  to  see  this  part  of  creation  pre- 
cisely as  it  was  in  pre-Columbian  days.  I 
sat  for  some  time  in  the  boat  before  taking  up 
the  anchor.  This  was  but  the  entrance,  I 
was  told,  to  spots  more  beautiful,  but  it  was 
hard  to  believe.  Here  was  a  river  hidden  in 
a  forest,  and  what  more  could  one  wish  ? 
The  warblers  well  knew  that  May-day  had 
come  again,  and  every  one  of  the  mighty 
host  greeted  the  brilliant  sunshine.  There 
seemed  literally  to  be  hundreds  of  them. 
Flashing  like  gems  were  redstarts,  light  as 
swallows  upon  the  wing.  Bright-spotted 
warblers,  and  others  sombre  gray,  laughed 


52        Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

as  they  tarried  on  the  trembling  twigs ;  then, 
mounting  into  the  sunlight,  sang  loudly  as 
they  flew,  or  darted  into  gloomy  nooks  so 
hidden  that  not  even  a  sunbeam  could  follow 
them. 

The  river  with  its  attendant  birds  could 
not  claim  all  the  merit ;  the  land  was  no  less 
beautiful.  The  oaks  were  not  yet  in  leaf, 
but  there  was  no  lack  of  green.  The  holly's 
foliage  was  bright  as  May,  the  polished 
leaves  of  the  tea-berry  shone  as  a  midsummer 
growth,  the  ink-berry  had  defied  the  winter's 
storms,  and  the  maples  glowed  as  a  great  ruddy 
flame.  Really  distinct  as  was  every  objeft, 
yet,  as  a  whole,  the  outlook  was  dreary,  hazy, 
half  obscure,  as  we  looked  directly  into  the 
wood,  where  the  drooping  moss  festooned 
the  branches  of  the  smaller  oaks. 

No  voyager  ever  set  forth  from  so  fair  a 
port. 

My  companion  knew  the  route,  and  with 
an  oar  he  took  his  place  astern  to  guide  the 
boat  safely  down  the  swift  stream.  It  was 
all  right  as  it  proved,  but  at  times  I  forgot 
that  I  had  come  to  see  the  forest.  Instead, 
an  element  of  doubt  as  to  the  guide's  ability 
came  painfully  to  the  front.  With  devilish 


f 

I     . 

Travels  in  a  Tree-top        53 

malignancy,  as  I  thought,  trees  had  prostrated 
themselves  and  rested  just  beneath  the  water's 
surface,  or  stood  up,  with  outreached  arms, 
as  if  defying  us.  How  we  passed  many  a 
crook  and  turn  I  cannot  now  remember.  I 
was  too  much  occupied  with  desperately 
clutching  at  anything  within  reach  to  notice 
the  "  when"  or  "  how,"  but  there  still  re- 
mains the  delicious  sensation  of  suddenly 
shooting  into  smooth  water  and  feeling — 
brave  as  a  lion. 

For  several  miles  on  either  side  of  the 
stream  we  had  a  typical  mixed  forest.  The 
willow-oak  predominated  at  times,  and  the 
delicate  foliage,  so  unlike  other  oaks,  was  very 
beautiful.  The  leaves  appeared  translucent  in 
the  bright  sunlight,  fairly  sparkled,  and  once 
made  a  splendid  background  to  scarlet  tanagers 
that  flashed  through  them.  In  this  long  reach 
of  dense  woods  there  were  fewer  birds  than  at 
our  starting-point,  or  perhaps  they  held  back 
as  we  passed.  But  other  life  was  not  want- 
ing. From  many  a  projecting  stump  there  slid 
many  a  turtle  into  the  dark  waters,  and  a  mink 
or  musk-rat  crossed  our  bow.  Careful  search 
would  no  doubt  have  revealed  numerous  creat- 
ures, for  here  was  a  safe  retreat  for  all  the 
5* 


54        Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

fauna  of  the  State.  The  deer  are  not  yet  quite 
gone,  possibly  a  few  bears  remain.  Certainly 
the  raccoon  and  otter  must  be  abundant.  I 
was  constantly  on  the  lookout  for  minks,  for 
the  river  abounds  in  fish.  This  animal  is 
sometimes  mistaken  for  a  huge  snake,  as  it 
rises  several  inches  above  the  water  at  times, 
and  has  then  a  rather  startling  appearance. 
An  old  fisherman  on  Chesapeake  Bay  told  me 
that  he  had  seen  a  mink  with  a  huge  eel  in  its 
mouth  come  to  the  surface,  and  then  the 
wriggling  fish  and  long,  lithe  body  of  the 
mink  together  looked  like  two  serpents  fight- 
ing. I  can  readily  imagine  it.  Birches, 
liquidambars,  and  pines  in  clusters  would 
next  command  attention,  and  usually  there 
was  a  dense  undergrowth.  Holding  the  boat, 
at  times,  we  could  hear  the  water  rushing 
through  the  roots  of  this  tangled  mass,  and 
found  that  what  we  had  supposed  was  firm 
land  afforded  no  certain  footing,  and  a  bluff 
of  firm  earth  was  very  welcome  when  we 
thought  of  landing  for  a  hasty  lunch.  This 
frm  earth  did  indeed  support  us,  but  in  re- 
ality it  was  the  most  unstable  of  shifting  sands, 
being  held  in  place  by  reindeer-moss,  par- 
tridge-berry, and  other  pine-barren  growths. 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top        55 

Nothing  was  in  sight  but  the  scrubby  pines, 
and  we  had  to  be  very  careful  that  our  fire 
did  not  get  among  the  "  needles"  and  dash 
through  the  woods.  I  found  here  absolutely 
no  birds.  They  seem  all  to  prefer  the  tradls 
covered  by  deciduous  trees  ;  but  insect-feeders 
could  have  flourished  here.  The  steam  of 
our  dinner-pot  brought  more  substantial  forms 
than  mosquitoes,  one  house-fly  being  deter- 
mined to  share  my  Frankfurter  and  success- 
fully defying  all  attempts  at  capture. 

Again  afloat,  we  soon  came  to  the  mouth 
of  an  inflowing  stream  called  Dead  River, 
said  to  be  very  deep.  This  point  was  per- 
haps the  wildest  of  all.  The  open  water 
here  was  very  wide,  and  a  forest  of  projecting 
stumps  of  various  heights  showed  plainly  that 
we  were  on  the  edge  of  an  area  of  drowned 
land.  In  the  distance  was  an  unbroken  back- 
ground of  pines,  which  now  looked  black.  At 
wide  intervals  could  be  seen  huge  pines 
that  had  escaped  the  charcoal-burner  or  lum- 
berman. The  stems  and  lower  branches 
were,  of  course,  concealed,  but  in  the  hazy 
atmosphere  the  tops  were  as  floating  islands 
of  darkest  green,  standing  boldly  out  against 
the  pearly  sky  behind  them. 


56        Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

Here,  at  the  mouth  of  Dead  River,  we  be- 
held a  pretty  sight.  A  wood-duck  with  her 
brood  rushed  over  the  water  in  a  most  lively 
manner,  flecking  the  black  expanse  with 
patches  of  white  foam.  Such  incidents  add 
much  to  such  a  journey.  An  empty  forest 
is  as  forbidding  as  an  empty  house. 

In  the  coves  there  were  changes  from  the 
surrounding  scenery  that  were  not  to  be  over- 
looked. A  rank  growth  of  golden-club  rest- 
ing on  the  dark  waters  was  very  striking. 
The  picture  was  such  as  we  see  on  a  Claude 
Lorrain  glass.  Near  by  fresh  sphagnum  in 
a  shallow  pool  was  bronze  and  green  :  a  place 
for  frogs  to  squat  unseen,  but  I  could  find  none. 
How  often  this  happens  !  At  the  very  places 
where  we  think  animal  life  will  be  in  abun- 
dance we  can  find  no  trace  of  it.  Then,  look- 
ing up,  we  see  but  trees.  No  break  in  the 
line  that  hems  us  in.  Trees  old  and  young, 
trees  living  and  dead,  great  and  small ;  nothing 
but  trees. 

The  wind  freshened  as  the  day  grew  old, 
and  doubly  troubled  were  the  waters.  There 
was  no  rest  for  them  now,  even  in  sheltered 
nooks,  and  it  was  only  by  sturdy  strokes  of 
the  oars  that  we  made  headway  at  all.  There 


Travels  in  a  Tree-top        57 

was  no  perceptible  current  to  bear  us  along  as 
before.  The  waves  dashing  against  the  bare 
trunks  of  trees  long  dead  and  now  bent  by  the 
wind  added  much  to  the  wild  scene.  Novel 
as  it  all  was,  I  could  not  quite  enjoy  it.  It 
was  something  to  be  contemplated  from  the 
shore,  I  thought.  I  know  I  was  laughed  at, 
but  the  many  "  blind"  stumps,  or  those  just 
beneath  the  surface,  of  which  my  companion 
spoke  so  unconcernedly  came  too  promi- 
nently to  mind  when  I  least  expe&ed  them, 
and  added  much  significance  to  the  fa&  that 
I  cannot  swim. 

As  we  neared  home  the  scene  abruptly 
changed,  and  the  river  was  lost  in  a  wide  ex- 
panse that  might  be  called  a  lake  if  the  fadl 
was  not  so  evident  that  it  is  a  mill-pond. 
This,  however,  did  not  detract  from  the 
beauty  of  the  surroundings,  and  before  our 
final  landing  we  drew  up  to  a  bold  bit  of 
shore  and  searched,  while  it  was  yet  day,  for 
pyxie.  There  was  an  abundance  of  bloom- 
ing andromeda,  too,  and  arbutus,  with  club- 
moss  of  richest  green.  I  almost  placed  my 
hand  on  a  centipede  that  glowed  like  an  em- 
erald. It  was  resting  on  ruddy  sphagnum, 
and  made  a  splendid  pifture.  I  could  not 


58        Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

capture  the  creature.  An  attempt  to  do  so 
on  my  part  was  followed  by  its  disappearance 
with  a  suddenness  that  could  be  likened  only 
to  the  flashes  of  light  that  played  upon  its 
back.  Here  I  heard  many  frogs,  but  could 
find  none.  The  rattle  and  peep  were  not 
like  the  voices  of  those  in  the  meadows  at 
home,  and  I  wondered  about  Cope's  new 
tiger-frog  and  the  little  green  hyla  that  is  so 
rare  here  in  Jersey.  Possibly  I  heard  them 
both ;  probably  not. 

We  returned  to  prosy  life  when  the  boat 
was  lifted  over  the  dam,  and  the  incidents 
were  few  and  commonplace  in  the  short  drift 
that  carried  us  to  an  old  wharf,  a  relic  of  the 
last  century. 

What  a  difference  between  such  a  forest 
and  a  few  hundred  oaks  and  ashes  at  home ! 
and  yet  these  are  far  better  than  treeless  fields. 
It  is  these  few  trees  that  hold  many  of  our 
migratory  birds,  and  through  them,  in  spring, 
troop  the  north-bound  warblers.  In  the 
gloaming  a  small  traft  of  woodland  widens 
out,  and,  seeing  no  open  country  beyond, 
what  does  it  matter,  if  we  walk  in  a  circle, 
whether  it  be  one  acre  or  one  thousand? 


Travels  in  a  Tree- top        59 

There  is  good  philosophy  in  "  Small  favors 
thankfully  received."  Here  in  this  little  wood 
are  beautiful  white-footed  mice,  a  shy,  noc- 
turnal jerboa,  flying-squirrels,  and,  if  I  mis- 
take not,  a  whole  family  of  opossums.  Here, 
until  autumn,  are  wood-robins  that  never 
weary  us  by  overmuch  singing,  and  cat-birds, 
chewinks,  and  the  rose-breasted  grosbeak.  1 
do  not  complain,  but  as  the  summer  passes  I 
regret  that  these  birds  have  their  appointed 
time  and  will  soon  be  gone.  Why  so  soon  ? 
I  often  wonder,  for  their  haunts  do  not  lose 
their  loveliness  for  weeks  after  they  have  dis- 
appeared. 

No  wall  of  green  above,  about, 

They  silently  steal  away  j 
With  but  a  carpet  of  withered  leaves, 

The  minstrel  will  not  stay. 

But  the  spot  is  no  "  banquet-hall  deserted," 
for  all  that;  the  departure  of  the  summer 
birds  is  but  to  make  way  for  those  who  have 
gladdened  Canadian  woods  for  many  weeks. 
The  purple  finch  will  soon  be  here,  and  tree- 
sparrows  in  great  companies,  and  the  gentle 
white-throat;  and  these,  with  our  stately 
cardinal  for  a  leader,  will  hold  forth  melodi- 


60        Travels  in  a  Tree-top 

ously,  though  the  north  winds  blow  and  the 
angry  east  wind  brings  the  snow  upon  its 
wings. 

In  the  smile  of  winter  sunshine  there  will 
be  enafted  another  drama,  but  now  it  is 
comedy  rather  than  tragedy.  There  are  no 
confli&ing  interests  now,  no  serious  quarrels, 
no  carking  cares — the  world  is  really  in  good 
humor  and  our  days  of  early  darkness  are 
misunderstood. 

Let  him  who  doubts — and  there  are  but 
few  who  do  not — turn  from  the  worn  lines 
of  travel,  go  well  out  of  the  beaten  path, 
and  find,  in  the  way-side  nooks  his  neighbors 
have  neglected,  most  excellent  company  : 
birds  of  brave  heart  that  can  sing  in  the  teeth 
of  a  storm  ;  and  many  a  creature,  wrapped  in 
his  furry  coat,  laughs  at  the  earnest  efforts  of 
winter  to  keep  him  from  his  outings. 

Did  I  dare  sit  in  this  same  oak  when  the 
leaves  have  fallen,  I  should  have  strange  tales 
to  tell, — tales  so  strange  that  the  summertide 
would  be  commonplace  in  comparison. 


CHAPTER  SECOND 

A  HUJW  FOR  THE  PTXIE 

storm  raged  to  defeat  a  long-cherished 
plan,  and  we  must  laugh  at  threaten- 
ing clouds  or  miss  many  an  outing.  In 
dreams  the  pyxie  had  been  blooming  for 
weeks,  and  to  prove  that  not  all  dreams  go 
by  contraries,  I  started  on  a  flower-hunt. 
This  is  not  always  so  tame  and  adventure- 
less  a  matter  as  one  might  think.  There  are 
wood-blooms  that  scorn  even  a  trace  of  man's 
interference,  and  the  pyxie  is  one  of  them. 
Nature  alone  can  provide  its  wants,  and  only 
where  Nature  holds  undisputed  sway  can  it 
be  found.  To  find  this  beautiful  flower  we 
must  plunge  into  the  wilderness. 

It  was  a  long  tramp,  but  never  wanting  a 
purpose  for  every  step  taken.  Each  turn 
in  the  path  offered  something  new,  and  if 
ever  for  a  moment  a  trace  of  weariness  was 
felt,  it  was  because  even  to  our  hungry  eyes 
6  61 


62       A  Hunt  for  the  Pyxie 

the  wilderness  was  overfull.  Bewildering 
multitudes  are  more  to  be  feared  than  possi- 
ble dangers.  There  is  no  escape  from  the 
former.  Not  a  tree  or  bush,  not  a  bird  or 
blossom,  but  to-day  offered  excellent  reason 
why  with  them  we  should  spend  our  time ; 
and  how  often  they  all  spoke  at  once ! 

Except  the  ceaseless  rattle  of  small  frogs, 
there  was  no  sound,  for  that  sad  sighing  of  the 
tall  pines  seems  but  the  rhythmic  breathing 
of  silence  ;  or,  passing  from  the  wet  grounds 
to  the  higher,  drier,  and  more  barren  trails, 
we  heard  only  the  crisp  crackling  of  the 
reindeer-moss  we  crushed  at  every  step. 
Although 

"  It  is  the  bright  day  that  brings  forth  the  adder, 
And  that  craves  wary  walking," 

we  gave  no  thought  to  possible  danger, — for 
rattlesnakes  are  still  to  be  found.  Not  even 
when  we  stooped  to  pick  the  bright  berries 
of  winter-green  did  we  think  of  a  coiled  ser- 
pent buried  in  dead  leaves  ;  and  what  oppor- 
tunity for  murder  the  serpent  had  as  we 
buried  our  faces  in  pillows  of  pink  and  pearly 
arbutus ! 

At  last  we  reached  South  River  (in  South- 


A  Hunt  for  the  Pyxie        63 

ern  New  Jersey),  and  just  here  was  no  place 
to  tarry,  unless  to  court  melancholy.  It  was 
not  required  that  my  companion  should  enu- 
merate the  reasons  why  the  one-time  farm 
along  the  river-bank  had  been  abandoned. 
A  glance  at  the  surrounding  fields  told  the 
whole  story.  There  was,  indeed,  barren- 
ness,— and  very  different,  this,  from  what  ob- 
tains in  localities  near  by  to  which  the  same 
term  is  applied.  In  the  so-called  pine  barrens 
there  is  a  luxuriant  vegetation ;  but  here  about 
the  deserted  house  and  out-building  there 
was  nothing  but  glistening  sand,  moss,  and 
those  pallid  grasses  that  suggest  death  rather 
than  life,  however  feeble.  And  how  widely 
different  is  it  to  be  surrounded  by  ruin 
wrought  by  man,  and  to  be  in  a  forest  where 
man  has  never  been !  Could  I  not  have 
turned  my  back  upon  the  scene  and  looked 
out  only  upon  the  river,  the  day's  pleasure 
would  have  vanished.  But  we  were  soon 
away,  and  a  naturalist's  paradise  was  spread 
before  us.  What  constitutes  such  a  place  ? 
Not  necessarily  one  where  man  has  never 
been  :  it  will  suffice  if  Nature  has  withstood 
his  interference;  and  this  is  true  of  these 
pine  barrens,  this  weedy  wilderness,  this 


64       A  Hunt  for  the  Pyxie 

silent  battle-field  where  the  struggle  for  ex- 
istence never  ceases,  and  yet,  as  we  see  it, 
peaceful  as  the  fleecy  clouds  that  fleck  an 
April  sky. 

Though  the  wind  that  swept  the  wide 
reach  of  waters  close  at  hand  still  smacked 
of  wintry  weather,  there  was  a  welcome 
warmth  on  shore.  The  oaks  even  hinted  of 
the  coming  leaf.  Their  buds  were  so  far 
swollen  that  the  sharp  outlines  of  bare  twigs 
against  the  sky  were  rounded  off.  The  ruddy 
stems  of  the  blueberry  bushes  gave  to  the 
river-bank  a  fire-like  glow,  and  yet  more 
telling  was  the  wealth  of  bright  golden  glow 
where  the  tall  Indian  grass  waved  in  all  its 
glory.  The  repellent  desolation  of  mid- 
winter, so  common  to  our  cold-soil  upland 
fields,  was  wholly  wanting  here ;  for,  while 
nothing  strongly  suggested  life  as  we  think 
of  it,  even  in  early  spring,  yet  nothing  re- 
called death,  the  familiar  feature  of  a  mid- 
winter landscape. 

The  scattered  cedars  were  not  gloomy  to- 
day. Their  green-black  foliage  stood  out  in 
bold  relief,  a  fitting  background  to  the  pifture 
of  Spring's  promises.  That  the  sea  was  not 
far  off  is  evident,  for  even  here,  a  dozen  miles 


A  Hunt  for  the  Pyxie       65 

from  the  ocean,  many  of  these  trees  were  bent 
and  squatty  at  the  top,  as  are  all  those  that 
face  the  fury  of  storms  along  the  coast. 
Every  one  harbored  north-bound  migrating 
birds ;  restless,  warbling  kinglets  principally. 
No  other  tree  seemed  to  attraft  these  pretty 
birds,  many  a  flock  passing  by  scores  of  oaks 
to  the  next  cedar  in  their  line  of  march. 
The  clustered  pines  were  not  similarly  fa- 
vored, not  a  bird  of  any  kind  appearing  about 
them,  and  life  of  all  kinds  was  wholly  absent 
in  the  long  aisles  between  their  stately  trunks. 
Our  path  led  us  through  one  great  grove 
where  every  tree  grew  straight  and  tall  as  a 
ship's  mast.  The  light  that  filled  this  wood 
was  strangely  beautiful.  Nothing  stood  out 
distinctly.  To  have  passed  here  in  the  gloam- 
ing would  have  tried  weak  nerves.  Even  in 
the  glare  of  noonday  my  imagination  was  ab- 
normally adlive,  every  stunted  shrub  and 
prostrate  log  assuming  some  startling  shape. 
Think  of  such  a  place  after  sunset !  Let  an 
owl  whoop  in  your  ears  when  hedged  in  by 
thick-set  trees !  Philosophize  as  one  will  in 
daylight,  it  goes  for  little  now,  and  the  days 
of  Indians,  cougars,  and  all  ill-natured  beasts 
come  trooping  back.  This  distrust  of  dark- 
*  6* 


66       A  Hunt  for  the  Pyxie 

ness  is  not  mere  cowardice,  and  I  would 
accept  no  one's  statement  that  he  is  wholly 
free  of  it.  Every  sound  becomes  unduly 
significant  when  we  are  alone  in  a  wilderness  ; 
often  unpleasantly  so,  even  during  the  day, 
and 

"  in  the  night,  imagining  some  fear, 
How  easy  is  a  bush  supposed  a  bear !" 

Out  of  the  pines  and  into  the  oak  woods : 
the  change  was  very  abrupt,  and  as  complete 
as  possible.  Every  feature  of  the  surround- 
ings was  bathed  in  light  now,  and  the  emer- 
gence from  the  pine  forest's  gloom  restored 
our  spirits.  We  are  ever  craving  variety,  and 
there  was  positive  beauty  in  every  stunted 
oak's  ugliness,  and  from  them  we  needed  but 
to  turn  our  heads  to  see  thrifty  magnolias 
near  the  river-bank.  These  have  no  special 
enemy,  now  that  the  beavers  are  gone,  and 
thrive  in  the  black  mud  by  the  water's  edge ; 
better,  by  far,  than  the  gum-trees  near  them, 
for  these  were  heavy  laden  with  pallid  mis- 
tletoe,— to  me  a  most  repugnant  growth. 

We  reached  open  country  at  last,  and  here 
were  birds  without  number.  How  quickly 
all  else  fades  at  such  a  time !  The  whole 


A  Hunt  for  the  Pyxie       67 

valley  trembled  with  the  ringing  whistle  of 
a  thousand  red-wings.  A  few  swallows — the 
first  of  their  kind  to  return — darted  over  the 
wide  waters  and  rested  on  proje&ing  branches 
of  trees  that  floods  had  stranded  on  the 
islands.  The  sprightly  kill-deers  ran  with 
such  dainty  steps  over  the  sand  that  I  could 
not  find  their  footprints.  They,  too,  were 
pioneer  birds,  but  none  the  less  light-hearted 
because  alone.  They  sang  with  all  their  last 
year's  earnestness,  scattering  music  among 
the  marshes  where  frogs  were  now  holding 
high  carnival.  They  were  very  tame,  at 
least  so  far  as  we  were  concerned,  but  a  little 
in  doubt  as  to  what  a  stray  hawk  might  be 
about.  But  they  left  us  only  to  make  room 
for  others,  and  whether  we  looked  riverward 
or  landward  mattered  not :  it  was  birds,  birds, 
birds  !  Here  a  hundred  sparrows  in  an  oak, 
there  a  troop  of  snow-birds  in  the  bushes,  a 
whistling  titmouse  sounding  his  piercing 
notes,  the  plaintive  bluebird  floating  over- 
head, the  laugh  of  the  loon  at  the  bend 
of  the  river,  and  buzzards  searching  for 
stranded  herring  where  the  seine  had  been 
drawn. 

A  flock  of  herons,  too,  passed  overhead, 


68       A  Hunt  for  the  Pyxie 

and,  had  they  not  seen  us,  might  have  stopped 
here  on  the  river-shore.  What  an  addition 
to  a  landscape  !  and  yet  now  so  seldom  seen. 
No  birds  can  be  more  harmless  than  they, 
yet  not  even  the  hawks  are  subject  to  greater 
persecution.  Not  long  since  these  birds 
were  abundant,  and  a  "  heronry"  was  one  of 
the  "  sights"  of  many  a  neighborhood ;  but 
people  now  scarcely  know  what  a  "  heronry" 
is.  The  very  word  suggests  how  rapidly  our 
large  birds  are  disappearing,  and  their  roost- 
ing-places,  where  hundreds  gathered  and 
nested,  too,  in  season,  are  matters  of  "  ancient 
history."  In  fear  and  trembling,  the  herons 
that  linger  about  our  watercourses  singly 
seek  secluded  trees  wherein  to  rest,  and,  I 
fear,  even  then  sleep  with  one  eye  open.  A 
fancy,  on  the  part  of  women,  for  heron 
plumes  has  wrought  a  deal  of  mischief. 

But  where  is  the  pyxie?  We  knew  it 
must  be  near  at  hand,  but  why  make  haste 
to  find  it  ?  All  else  was  so  beautiful  here, 
why  not  wait  even  until  another  day  ?  The 
river-bank  was  itself  a  study.  At  the  top, 
sand  of  snowy  whiteness ;  then  a  ribbon  of 
clay  over  which  water  trickled  carrying  iron 
in  solution,  that  was  slowly  cementing  a  sand 


A  Hunt  for  the  Pyxie       69 

stratum  beneath,  where  every  degree  of  den- 
sity could  be  found,  from  solid  rock  to  a 
paste-like  mass  that  we  took  pleasure  in 
moulding  into  fantastic  shapes,  thereby  re- 
newing our  dirt-pie  days. 

A  little  later  in  the  year,  this  bluff,  now 
streaked  and  spotted,  will  be  green  with  the 
broad-leaved  sundews,  curious  carnivorous 
plants  that  here  take  the  place  of  grasses. 
There  is  a  filiform  sundew  that  grows  near 
by,  where  the  ground  is  high,  if  not  dry ;  but 
it,  too,  waits  for  warmer  days.  Not  so  the 
pyxie.  Almost  at  first  glance,  as  we  left  the 
bluff,  we  saw  it,  sparkling  white,  nestled 
among  the  gray  mats  of  reindeer-moss,  or 
fringed  by  shining  winter-green  still  laden 
with  its  crimson  fruit. 

Here  the  earth  was  strangely  carpeted. 
Sphagnum,  beautiful  by  reason  of  rich  color, 
gray-green  moss,  and  the  object  of  our  long 
tramp, — pyxie.  No  botany  does  it  justice, 
passing  it  by  with  the  mere  mention  of  its 
barbarous  name,  Pyxidantbera  barbulata.  It 
might  be  thought  the  meanest  of  all  weeds, 
but  is,  in  truth,  the  chiefest  glory  of  this 
wonderful  region. 

Is  it  strange  we  regretted  that  Time  would 


70       A  Hunt  for  the  Pyxie 

not  slacken  his  pace  ?  I  know  not  where 
else,  in  these  northern  regions,  so  much  is  to 
be  seen,  and  so  soon.  Spring,  elsewhere,  is 
the  round  year's  strangest  child,  often  too 
forward,  and  too  often  backward ;  but  her 
accomplishments  here  and  now  are  beyond 
criticism.  Such  perfeft  work,  and  yet  she 
is  not  out  of  her  teens.  The  day  was 
April  I. 


CHAPTER  THIRD 

THE  COMIJJG  OF  <THE  BIRDS 

'  I  ^HE  moon  in  April  is  an  important  fac- 
•*•  tor  in  the  progress  of  that  event — the 
coming  of  the  birds — which  makes  every 
spring  memorable.  While  not  disposed  to 
wait  upon  it  too  long,  still,  there  is  little  doubt 
but  that  the  birds  that  have  been  wintering 
afar  south  travel  very  largely  by  its  light,  and 
when  it  happens  that  the  moon  fulls  between 
the  middle  and  the  twenty-fifth  of  the  month, 
the  flights  of  thrushes,  orioles,  wrens,  and 
other  migrants  reach  us  a  week  earlier  than 
when  the  nights  are  dark  during  the  same 
period.  Temperature,  storms,  and  general 
backwardness  of  the  season  do  not  seem  to 
have  a  like  importance  in  bird  economy. 

Of  course,  by  the  coming  of  the  birds  I 
do  not  refer  to  the  pioneers  that  are  in  ad- 
vance of  every  company.  Indeed,  I  have 
seldom  announced  the  first  of  the  season,  but 


72    The  Coming  of  the  Birds 

I  have  been  met  by  the  man  who  was  at  least 
one  day  ahead  of  me ;  so  firstlings  are  not 
favorites. 

There  is  every  year  the  one  memorable 
morning  when  we  can  say,  in  broad  terms, 
"The  birds  are  here."  When  the  oriole 
whistles  from  the  tallest  tree  in  the  lawn ; 
when  the  wren  chatters  from  the  portal  of 
his  old-time  home;  when  the  indigo-finch 
sings  in  the  weedy  pasture ;  when  lisping 
warblers  throng  every  tree  and  shrub ;  while 
over  all,  high  in  air,  the  twittering  swallows 
dart  in  ecstasy ;  and  at  last,  the  day-long  con- 
cert over,  whippoorwills  in  the  woods  pipe 
their  monotonous  refrain.  The  Indians  were 
right :  when  there  came  such  days  as  this, 
they  had  no  further  fear  of  frost,  and  we  need 
have  but  little.  Our  climate  certainly  has 
changed  slightly  since  their  time,  but  we  have 
in  such  a  bird-full  day  an  assurance  that  the 
clinging  finger-tips  of  Winter  have  at  last  re- 
laxed and  his  hold  upon  our  fields  and  forests 
is  lost. 

A  word  again  of  the  advance  guard.  The 
brown  thrush  came  on  the  seventeenth  of  the 
month  (April,  1892),  when  there  were  no 
leafy  thickets  and  the  maples  only  were  in 


The  Coming  of  the  Birds    73 

bloom.  What  a  glorious  herald  he  proved  ! 
and  so  he  always  proves.  Before  the  sun  was 
up  I  heard  him  in  my  dreams,  and  later  the 
fancy  proved  a  fa&.  Perched  at  the  very  top 
of  an  old  walnut-tree,  where  the  wintry  world 
was  spread  before  him,  he  sang  that  song 
peculiarly  his  own. 

No  hint  of  blushing  roses  on  the  hill, 
The  buds  are  sleeping  yet  upon  the  plain, 

The  blight  of  dreary  winter  clingeth  still, 
The  forest  weeps  where  falls  the  chilly  rain. 

Scarce  hopeful  leaf-buds  shrink — death's  solemn  hush 
Rests  on  the  field,  the  meadow  brook  along, 

Till  bi  eaks  the  day,  O  happy  day !   the  thrush 
Foretells  the  coming  summer  in  a  song. 

Two  days  later  it  was  almost  summer,  and 
tripping  along  the  river's  pebbly  beach  were 
spotted  sand-pipers.  They  were  ahead  of 
time  this  year,  I  thought,  but  none  the  less 
happy  because  the  trees  were  bare  and  the 
water  cold ;  but,  stranger  still,  in  the  sheltered 
coves  of  the  mill-pond,  that  now  reflected 
the  gold  of  the  spice-wood  and  the  crimson 
of  the  overhanging  maples,  there  were  war- 
blers, merry  as  in  midsummer,  and  a  pair,  at 
least,  of  small  thrushes.  A  bittern,  too,  stood 
D  7 


74    The  Coming  of  the  Birds 

in  the  weedy  marsh.  There  they  had 
gathered  on  that  sunny,  summery  day,  as  if 
warm  weather  was  an  established  faft;  but 
how  different  the  next  morning,  when  a  cold 
north-east  storm  prevailed !  How  well  it 
showed  that  one  such  sunny  day  does  not 
make  a  season !  How  clearly  it  proved  that 
birds  have  no  prophetic  insight !  They  were 
caught  and  suffered  and  disappeared.  Did 
they  fly  above  the  clouds  and  go  to  some 
distant  point,  free  of  chilling  rain,  or  did 
they  hide  in  the  cedar  swamps  ?  This  prob- 
lem I  did  not  essay  to  solve.  In  the  few 
cedars  along  the  river-shore  I  found  nothing 
but  winter  residents,  but  I  made  no  careful 
search.  A  few  days  later  and  spring-like 
conditions  again  prevailed  and  every  day  some 
new  bird  was  seen,  but  not  until  May  I 
could  we  say,  "  The  birds  have  come." 

These  uncertain  April  days  are  not  dis- 
appointing. We  are  not  warranted  in  ex- 
pedling  much  of  them,  and  whatsoever  we 
do  meet  with  is  just  so  much  more  than  we 
had  reason  to  look  for, — an  added  bit  of  good 
luck  that  increases  our  love  for  the  year's 
fourth  month  ;  but  if  no  migrant  came,  there 
is  little  likelihood  that  the  pastures  and  river- 


The  Coming  of  the  Birds    75 

shore  would  be  silent.  There  never  was  an 
April  that  had  not  its  full  complement  of 
robins  and  blithe  meadow-larks,  of  glori- 
ous crested  tits  and  gay  cardinals,  of  restless 
red-wings  and  stately  grakles,  and  these  are 
quite  equal  to  driving  dull  care  away,  and 
keeping  it  away,  if  the  migrants  did  not 
come  at  all.  Even  in  March,  and  early  in 
the  month,  we  often  have  a  foretaste  of  abun- 
dant bird-life ;  an  intimation  of  what  a  few 
weeks  will  bring  us.  A  bright  March  morn- 
ing in  1 893  was  an  instance  of  this.  I  walked 
for  miles  along  the  river-bank  with  a  learned 
German  who  was  enthusiastic  about  every- 
thing but  what  interested  me.  This  may 
not  seem  to  be  a  promising  outlook,  but  we 
undertook  to  convert  each  other.  I  was  to 
give  up  my  frivolity,  he  determined.  My 
effort  was  to  get  his  dry-as-dust  whimsies  out 
of  him.  The  great  ice-gorge  of  the  past 
winter  was  now  a  torrent  of  muddy  waters 
and  huge  cakes  of  crystal  that  rushed  and 
roared  not  only  through  the  river's  channel, 
but  over  half  the  meadow-land  that  bordered 
it.  It  was,  I  admit,  an  excellent  opportunity 
to  study  the  effects  of  such  occurrences,  for 
to  them  is  due  the  shaping  of  the  valley, 


j6    The  Coming  of  the  Birds 

and  gravel  transportation,  and  all  that;  but 
then  there  was  the  effedt  of  light  and  shade 
upon  the  wonderful  scene,  and  beauty  like 
this  crowded  out  my  taste  for  geology.  The 
sky  was  darkly  blue,  flecked  with  great 
masses  of  snow  white-cloud  that  drifted 
between  the  sun  and  earth,  casting  shadows 
that  blackened  the  ice  and  brought  winter 
back  again ;  but  a  moment  later  a  flood  of 
sunshine  as  promptly  changed  all,  and  the 
bluebirds  hinted  of  spring.  Then,  too,  the 
gulls  and  crows  screamed  above  the  roar  and 
crunching  of  the  ice  as  it  struck  the  scattered 
trees,  while  in  every  sheltered  nook  was  a 
full  complement  of  song-sparrows.  Why  any 
one  should  bother  about  geology  at  such  a 
time  I  could  not  see ;  but  my  companion 
was  intent  upon  problems  of  the  ice  age,  and 
continually  remarked,  "  Now,  if"  or  "  Don't 
you  see  ?"  but  I  always  cut  him  short  with 
"  See  that  crow  ?"  or  "  Hear  that  sparrow  ?" 
No,  he  had  not  seen  or  heard  the  birds,  and 
neither  had  I  his  particular  impressions. 
At  last  the  sunshine  broke  upon  him,  and 
he  laughed  aloud  when  he  saw  the  crows 
trying  to  steal  a  ride  on  ice-rafts  that  con- 
tinually upset.  I  was  hopeful  now,  and  he 


The  Coming  of  the  Birds    77 

soon  heard  the  birds  that  sang,  and  whistled 
after  a  long  line  of  kill-deer  plover  that  hur- 
ried by,  every  one  calling  to  his  fellows.  It 
was  something  to  know  that  the  coming  of 
the  birds  can  rouse  a  German  out  of  his 
everlasting  problems.  He  had  more  to  say 
of  the  springtide  so  near  at  hand  than  had  I, 
and,  nosing  over  the  ground,  found  nine 
vigorous  plants  in  aftive  growth,  and  spoke 
so  learnedly  of  Cyperus,  Galium,  Allium,  and 
Saponaria  that  I  as  glibly  thought,  in  jealous 
mood,  "  Confound  him !"  for  now  he  was 
taking  possession  of  my  province  and  show- 
ing me  my  littleness  ;  but  then  I  had  dragged 
him  out  of  his  problems. 

The  truth  is,  I  was  in  something  like 
despair  when  we  started  out,  for  I  feared  a 
iefture  on  physical  geography,  and,  indeed, 
did  not  quite  escape ;  but  the  bitter  was  well 
mixed  with  the  sweet,  and  he  in  time  listened 
with  all  my  ardor  to  the  birds  that  braved  the 
boisterous  wind  and  were  not  afraid  of  a  river 
wilder  than  they  had  ever  seen  before.  The 
day  proved  to  be  of  more  significance  than  as 
regards  mere  glacial  geology.  It  was  a  fore- 
taste of  what  was  coming  in  April.  I  drew 
a  glowing  pi&ure  of  what  our  April  meant, 
7* 


78    The  Coming  of  the  Birds 

and  pictured  a  peaceful  river  and  violets 
and  meadow  blossoms  as  bright  as  they  were 
fragrant.  My  learned  friend  smiled,  then 
grew  enthusiastic;  must  come  again  to  see 
the  birds  as  they  arrived,  and — must  I  say 
it  ? — spoke  of  beer.  Alas !  it  was  Sunday. 

There  are  two  reasons  why  April  birds  are 
particularly  attractive.  One  is,  there  are 
fewer  of  them,  and  again,  there  is  practically 
no  foliage  to  conceal  them.  Better  one  bird 
in  full  view  than  a  dozen  half  hidden.  Their 
songs,  too,  have  a  flavor  of  novelty,  and  ring 
so  assuringly  through  the  leafless  woods.  The 
ear  forever  bends  graciously  to  promises,  even 
though  we  know  they  will  be  broken ;  but 
birds,  unlike  men,  are  not  given  to  lying. 
When  they  promise  May  flowers  and  green 
leaves  they  mean  it,  and,  so  far  as  history  re- 
cords, there  has  never  been  a  May  without 
them,  not  even  the  cold  May  of  1816,  when 
there  was  ice  and  snow.  But  aside  from  their 
singing,  April  birds  offer  the  opportunity  of 
studying  their  manners,  which  is  better  to 
know  than  the  number  of  their  tail-feathers 
or  the  color  of  their  eggs.  The  brown 
thrush  that  sings  so  glibly  from  the  bare 
branch  of  a  lonely  tree  shows  now,  by  his 


The  Coming  of  the  Birds    79 

way  of  holding  himself  and  pointing  his  tail, 
that  he  is  closely  akin  to  the  little  wrens  and 
their  big  cousin,  the  Carolina  mocker,  so 
called,  which  does  not  mock  at  all.  Of  all 
our  April  birds,  I  believe  I  love  best  the 
chewink,  or  swamp-robin.  To  be  sure,  he 
is  no  more  a  feature  of  April  than  of  June,  and 
many  are  here  all  winter ;  but  when  he  scat- 
ters the  dead  leaves  and  whistles  his  bi-syllabic 
refrain  with  a  vim  that  rouses  an  echo,  or 
mounts  a  bush  and  sings  his  few  notes  of  real 
music,  we  forget  that  summer  is  only  on  the 
way,  but  not  yet  here.  Of  all  our  birds,  I 
always  fancied  this  one  was  most  set  in  his 
singing,  as  he  surely  is  in  his  ways ;  but 
Cheney  tells  us  that  "  this  bird,  like  many 
others,  can  extemporize  finely  when  the  spirit 
moves  him.  For  several  successive  days  one 
season  a  chewink  gave  me  very  interesting 
exhibitions  of  the  kind.  He  fairly  revelled 
in  the  new  song,  repeating  it  times  without 
number.  Whether  he  stole  it  from  the  first 
strain  of '  Rock  of  Ages'  or  it  was  stolen  from 
him  or  some  of  his  family,  is  a  question  yet 
to  be  decided."  Now,  the  chewink  is  a  bird 
of  character,  and,  above  all  things,  dislikes 
interference,  and  he  sings  "for  his  own 


8o    The  Coming  of  the  Birds 

pleasure,  for  he  frequently  lets  himself  out 
lustily  when  he  knows  he  is  all  alone,"  as 
Dr.  Placzeck  has  said  of  birds  in  general.  I 
shall  never  forget  a  little  incident  I  once  wit- 
nessed, in  which  a  chewink  and  a  cardinal 
grosbeak  figured.  They  reached  the  same 
bush  at  the  same  moment,  and  both  started 
their  songs.  The  loud  whistle  of  the  red- 
bird  quite  smothered  the  notes  of  the  che- 
wink, which  stopped  suddenly  before  it  was 
through  and,  with  a  squeak  of  impatience, 
made  a  dash  at  the  intruder  and  nearly  knocked 
him  off  his  perch.  Such  haps  and  mishaps 
as  these — and  they  are  continually  occurring 
— can  only  be  seen  in  April  or  earlier,  when 
we  can  see  through  the  woods,  and  not  merely 
the  outer  branches  of  the  trees  when  in  leaf. 
In  April  we  can  deleft,  too,  the  earliest 
flowers,  and  they  fit  well  with  the  songs  of 
the  forerunning  birds.  There  is  more,  I 
think,  for  all  of  us  in  an  April  violet  than  in 
a  June  rose ;  in  a  sheltered  bit  of  turf  with 
sprouting  grass  than  in  the  wide  pastures  a 
month  later.  We  do  not  hurry  in-doors  at 
the  sudden  coming  of  an  April  shower. 
The  rain-drops  that  cling  to  the  opening 
leaf-buds  are  too  near  real  gems  not  to  be 


The  Coming  of  the  Birds     81 

fancied  a  veritable  gift  to  us,  and  we  toy 
with  the  baubles  for  the  brief  moment  that 
they  are  ours.  The  sunshine  that  follows 
such  a  shower  has  greater  magic  in  its  touch 
than  it  possesses  later  in  the  year;  the  buds  of 
the  morning  now  are  blossoms  in  the  after- 
noon, so  quickening  is  the  warmth  of  the  first 
few  days  of  spring.  The  stain  of  winter  is 
washed  away  by  an  April  shower,  and  the 
freshest  green  of  the  pasture  is  ever  that 
which  is  newest.  There  is  at  times  a  subtle 
element  in  the  atmosphere  that  the  chemist 
calls  "  ozone,"  but  a  better  name  is  "  snap." 
It  dwells  in  April  sunshine  and  is  the  invet- 
erate foe  of  inertia.  It  moves  us,  whether  we 
will  or  not,  and  we  are  now  in  a  hurry  even 
when  there  is  no  need  of  haste.  The 
"  spring  fever"  that  we  hear  of  as  a  malady 
in  town  never  counts  as  its  victim  the  lover 
of  an  April  outing.  The  beauty  of  novelty 
is  greater  than  the  beauty  of  abundance.  Our 
recollection  of  a  whole  summer  is  but  dim  at 
best,  but  who  forgets  the  beginnings  thereof? 
We  passed  by  unheeding  many  a  sweet  song 
before  the  season  was  over,  but  can  recall, 
I  venture  to  say,  our  first  glimpse  of  the 
returning  spring.  Though  the  sky  may  be 


82    The  Coming  of  the  Birds 

gray,  the  earth  brown,  and  the  wind  out  of 
the  north,  let  a  thrush  sing,  a  kinglet  lisp, 
a  crested  tit  whistle,  and  a  tree-sparrow  chirp 
among  the  swelling  leaf-buds,  and  you  have 
seen  and  heard  that  which  is  not  only  a  de- 
light in  itself,  but  the  more  pleasing  that  it 
is  the  prelude  announcing  the  general  coming 
of  the  birds. 


CHAPTER  FOURTH 

'THE  BUILDING   OF  THE 
JfEST 

*T*HERE  are  probably  very  few  children 
•*"  who  are  not  more  or  less  familiar 
with  birds'  nests,  for  they  are  not  by  any 
means  confined  to  the  country,  but  are  to  be 
found  in  the  shade  trees  of  every  village 
street,  to  say  nothing  of  the  old-time  lilac 
hedges,  gooseberry  bushes,  and  homely  shrub- 
bery of  fifty  years  ago.  Even  in  our  large 
cities  there  are  some  few  birds  brave  enough 
to  make  their  homes  in  or  very  near  the 
busiest  thoroughfares.  As  an  instance,  it 
was  not  so  long  ago  that  a  yellow-breasted 
chat — a  shy  bird — nested  in  the  yard  of  the 
Pennsylvania  Hospital,  at  the  corner  of  Eighth 
and  Spruce  Streets,  Philadelphia,  and  soon 
learned  to  mimic  many  a  familiar  street  sound. 
Such  instances  as  these  were  more  common 

83 


84    The  Building  of  the  Nest 

before  the  unfortunate  blunder  of  introducing 
the  English  sparrow.  But  it  is  in  the  country 
only  that  we  find  boys  really  posted  in  the 
matter  of  nests,  and  I  wish  I  could  add  that 
they  always  adopt  the  rules  of  "  hands 
off"  when  these  nests  come  under  their 
notice.  It  means  far  more  mischief  than 
most  people  think  to  disturb  a  nest,  and  so 
let  every  boy  decide  that  he  will  not  be 
guilty  of  such  wanton  cruelty.  This,  how- 
ever, does  not  shut  off  every  boy  and  girl  in 
the  land  from  studying  these  nests,  and  a 
more  delightful  subject  can  never  come  under 
youthful  investigation. 

What  is  a  bird's  nest  ?  Every  one  knows, 
after  a  fashion,  and  yet  few  have  ever  con- 
sidered how  much  that  bunch  of  twigs,  hol- 
low in  a  tree,  or  hole  in  the  ground  really 
means.  Like  so  much  that  is  familiar,  we 
glance  at  it  in  a  careless  way  and  never  stop 
to  consider  its  full  significance.  Except  in  a 
very  few  instances,  a  bird's  nest  is  never  the 
result  of  a  single  individual's  labor.  Even 
if  but  one  bird  does  all  the  work,  there  has 
previously  been  a  decision  reached  by  two 
birds  as  to  where  the  nest  shall  be  placed,  and 
how  much  this  means !  At  once  we  are 


The  Building  of  the  Nest    85 

brought  to  consider  that  an  interchange  of 
thought  has  taken  place.  The  pair  have 
discussed,  literally,  the  merits  and  drawbacks 
of  the  situation,  and  have  had  in  mind  not 
only  their  own  safety,  but  that  of  their  off- 
spring. The  faft  that  they  make  mistakes 
at  times  proves  this.  Were  this  not  the 
case,  or  if  nests  were  placed  hap-hazard  in 
any  tree  or  bush  or  anywhere  on  the  ground, 
bird  enemies  would  have  a  happy  time  for  a 
short  season,  and  then  birds,  like  many  of  the 
world's  huge  beasts,  would  become  extinct. 
On  the  contrary,  birds  have  long  since 
learned  to  be  very  careful,  and  their  ingenu- 
ity in  this  apparently  simpk  matter  of  choos- 
ing a  nest  site  is  really  astonishing.  This, 
too,  has  resulted  in  quickening  their  wits  in 
all  directions,  and  the  bird  that  is  really  a 
booby  is  scarcely  to  be  found. 

Birds  suffer  at  times  from  their  misjudg- 
ment  or  over-confidence,  and  this,  it  must  be 
added,  reflects  upon  us.  The  instances  are 
numberless  where  birds  have  quickly  learned 
that  certain  people  love  them,  and  they  lose 
all  fear.  Again,  naturally  very  timid  birds 
soon  learn  when  they  are  free  from  persecu- 
tion. The  writer  frequently  passes  in  the 
8 


86    The  Building  of  the  Nest 

cars  by  a  zoological  garden  on  the  bank  of 
a  river,  and  has  been  impressed  with  the 
abundant  illustration  of  birds'  intelligence  to 
be  noticed  there.  The  crows  have  learned 
that  fire-arms  are  not  allowed  to  be  used  any- 
where near,  and  so  they  fearlessly  hop  about 
not  only  the  enclosure  of  the  garden,  but  the 
many  tracks  of  the  railroad  just  outside, 
showing  no  timidity  even  when  the  locomo- 
tives rush  by.  Stranger  still,  wild  ducks 
gather  in  the  river  almost  directly  under  the 
railroad  bridge,  and  do  not  always  dive  out 
of  sight  as  the  trains  pass  by,  and  I  have 
never  seen  them  take  wing,  even  when  the 
whistle  blew  the  quick,  short,  penetrating 
danger  signal. 

To  come  back  to  their  nests :  birds  have 
other  enemies  than  man  to  guard  against,  and 
so  are  never  in  a  hurry  in  the  matter  of  deter- 
mining where  to  build.  Time  and  again  a  loca- 
tion has  been  discovered  to  be  unsuitable  after 
a  nest  has  been  commenced,  and  the  structure 
abandoned.  I  have  observed  this  many  times. 
Indeed,  my  own  curiosity  has  led  the  birds 
to  move,  they  not  quite  approving  my  con- 
stant watching  of  what  was  going  on.  I  well 
remember  seating  myself  once  in  a  shady 


The  Building  of  the  Nest    87 

nook  to  eat  my  lunch,  and  being  almost 
attacked  by  a  pair  of  black-and-white  tree- 
creeping  warblers.  Their  aftions  were  plainly 
a  protest  against  my  staying  where  I  was, 
and  on  looking  about,  I  found  that  I  had 
almost  sat  upon  their  nest,  which  was  then 
just  completed,  but  contained  no  eggs.  I 
visited  the  spot  the  next  day  and  found  a 
single  egg ;  but  my  coming  was  a  mistake, 
for  the  birds  now  believed  I  had  sinister  de- 
signs, and  abandoned  their  new-made  home. 
The  method  of  building,  of  course,  varies 
as  much  as  the  patterns  of  nests.  Even 
when  the  same  materials  are  used,  they  are 
differently  treated,  and  a  nest  of  sticks  only 
may  in  one  case  be  merely  thrown  together, 
as  it  were,  while  in  another  they  are  so  care- 
fully interlaced  that  the  structure  is  a  basket, 
and  holds  together  if  held  by  the  rim  only. 
Another,  the  same  in  general  appearance, 
would  immediately  fall  to  pieces  if  similarly 
treated.  A  reason  for  this  is  discoverable  in 
some  cases,  but  not  in  all.  If  we  examine  a 
great  many  nests,  the  rule  will  hold  good,  I 
think,  that  where  they  are  very  loosely  put  to- 
gether, the  locality  is  such  that  no  natural  dis- 
turbing causes,  as  high  winds,  are  likely  to 


88    The  Building  of  the  Nest 

bring  disaster.  Until  I  studied  this  point  the 
occurrence  of  exceedingly  frail  nests  was  ever  a 
matter  of  surprise,  for  it  is  to  be  remembered 
that  the  same  species,  as  a  cat-bird  or  cardinal 
red-bird,  does  not  build  after  a  uniform 
fashion,  but  adapts  its  work  to  the  spot 
chosen  for  the  nest.  It  would  be  very  haz- 
ardous to  say  that  a  nest  was  built  by  this  or 
that  bird,  unless  the  builder  was  seen  in 
possession. 

So  difficult  is  it  to  watch  a  pair  of  birds 
while  building,  that  the  method  of  their  work- 
ing is  largely  to  be  guessed  at  from  the  work 
itself,  but  by  means  of  a  field-glass  a  good 
deal  can  be  learned.  It  would  appear  as  if 
a  great  many  twigs  were  brought  for  the 
foundation  of  a  nest,  such  as  a  cat-bird's  or 
song-sparrow's,  that  were  unsuitable.  I  have 
occasionally  seen  a  twig  tossed  aside  with  a 
flirt  of  the  head  very  suggestive  of  disap- 
pointment. The  builders  do  not  always 
carry  with  them  a  distindl  idea  of  what  they 
want  when  hunting  for  material,  and  so  labor 
more  than  would  be  necessary  if  a  little  wiser. 
Very  funny  disputes,  too,  often  arise,  and  these 
are  most  frequent  when  wrens  are  finishing 
their  huge  structures  in  a  box  or  some  corner 


The  Building  of  the  Nest    89 

of  an  out-building.  A  feather,  or  a  bit  of 
thread,  or  a  small  rag  will  be  carried  in  by 
one  bird  and  tossed  out  by  the  other  with  a 
deal  of  scolding  and  "  loud  words"  that  is 
positively  startling.  But  when  the  frame- 
work of  any  ordinary  open  or  cup-shaped 
nest  is  finally  completed,  the  lining  is  not  so 
difficult  a  matter.  Soft  or  yielding  materials 
are  used  that  to  a  greater  or  less  extent  have 
a  "  felting  property,"  and  by  the  bird's  weight 
alone  assume  the  shape  desired.  This  is 
facilitated  by  the  bird  in  two  ways :  the 
builder  sits  down,  as  if  the  eggs  were  already 
laid,  and  with  its  beak  pushes  the  loose  ma- 
terial between  it  and  the  framework,  and 
tucks  odd  bits  into  any  too  open  crevices. 
While  doing  this,  it  slowly  moves  around 
until  it  has  described  a  complete  circle.  This 
brings  to  light  any  defefts  in  the  outer  struc- 
ture, and  the  bird  can  often  be  seen  tugging 
away  at  some  projecting  end,  or  its  mate,  out- 
side of  the  nest,  rearranging  a  twig  here  and 
there,  while  the  other  bird — shall  I  say  ? — 
is  giving  directions. 

Surprise  has  often  been  expressed  that  the 
common  chipping  sparrow  can  so  neatly 
curl  a  long  horse-hair  into  the  lining  of  its 


90    The  Building  of  the  Nest 

little  nest.  It  cannot  be  explained,  perhaps, 
but  we  have  at  least  a  clue  to  it.  One  end  of 
the  hair  is  snugly  tucked  in  among  stouter 
materials,  and  then, — I  ask  the  question  only, 
— as  the  bird  coils  it  about  the  sides  of  the 
nest  with  its  beak,  does  it  break  or  dent  it,  or 
is  there  some  chemical  effect  produced  by 
the  bird's  saliva  ?  The  hairs  do  not  appear 
to  be  merely  dry-curled,  for  in  that  case 
they  would  unroll  when  taken  from  the  nest, 
and  such  as  I  have  tried,  when  just  placed  in 
position,  retained  the  coiled  condition  when 
removed.  But  old  hair,  curled  by  long  ex- 
posure to  the  air  and  moisture,  is  often  used, 
and  this  is  far  more  tradtable.  When  we 
come  to  examine  woven  nests,  such  as  the 
Baltimore  oriole  and  the  red-eyed  vireo,  as 
well  as  some  other  small  birds,  build,  there  is 
offered  a  great  deal  more  to  study,  for  how 
they  accomplish  what  they  do,  with  their 
only  tools  their  feet  and  beak,  is  not  wholly 
known.  That  the  tropical  tailor-bird  should 
run  a  thread  through  a  leaf  and  so  bring  the 
edges  together  and  make  a  conical-shaped  bag, 
is  not  so  very  strange.  It  is  little  more  than 
the  piercing  of  the  leaf  and  then  putting  the 
thread  through  the  hole.  This  is  ingenious 


The  Building  of  the  Nest    91 

but  not  wonderful,  because  not  difficult ;  but 
let  us  consider  a  Baltimore  oriole  and  his 
nest.  The  latter  is  often  suspended  from  a 
very  slender  elm  or  willow  twig,  and  the  bird 
has  a  hard  time  to  hold  on  while  at  work. 
One  experienced  old  oriole  has  for  years  built 
in  the  elm  near  my  door,  and  occasionally  I 
have  caught  a  glimpse  of  him.  I  will  not  be 
positive,  but  believe  that  his  first  move  is  to 
find  a  good  stout  string,  and  this  he  ties  to  the 
twig.  I  use  the  word  "  tie"  because  I  have 
found  in  many  cases  a  capitally-tied  knot,  but 
how  the  bird,  or  birds,  could  accomplish 
this  I  cannot  imagine.  Both  feet  and  beak, 
I  suppose,  are  brought  into  play,  but  how  ? 
To  get  some  insight  into  the  matter,  I  once 
tied  a  very  long  string  to  the  end  of  a  thread 
that  the  oriole  had  secured  at  one  end  and 
left  dangling.  This  interference  caused  some 
commotion,  but  the  bird  was  not  outwitted. 
It  caught  the  long  string  by  its  loose  end  and 
wrapped  it  over  and  over  various  twigs,  and 
soon  had  a  curious  open-work  bag  that  served 
its  purpose  admirably.  The  lining  of  soft, 
fluffy  stuffs  was  soon  added.  This  brought  up 
the  question  as  to  whether  the  bird  ever  ties 
short  pieces  together  and  so  makes  a  more 


92    The  Building  of  the  Nest 

secure  cable  that  gives  strength  to  the  fin- 
ished nest.  In  examining  nests,  I  have  seen 
such  knots  as  might  have  been  tied  by  the 
birds,  but  there  was  no  way  to  prove  it. 
That  they  do  wrap  a  string  several  times 
about  a  twig  and  then  tie  it,  just  as  a  boy  ties 
his  fishing-line  to  a  pole,  is  certain.  With 
my  field-glass  I  have  followed  the  bird  far 
enough  to  be  sure  of  this.  When  at  work, 
the  bird,  from  necessity,  is  in  a  reversed  po- 
sition,— that  is,  tail  up  and  head  down.  This 
has  an  obvious  advantage,  in  that  the  builder 
can  see  what  is  going  on  beneath  him,  and 
shows,  too,  how  near  the  ground  the  nest  will 
come  when  finished ;  but  it  sometimes  hap- 
pens that  he  gets  so  absorbed  in  his  work 
that  a  person  can  approach  quite  near,  but  I 
never  knew  him  to  become  entangled  in  the 
loose  ends  that  hang  about  him. 

The  oriole  at  times  offers  us  a  wonder- 
ful example  of  ingenuity.  It  occasionally 
happens  that  too  slight  a  twig  is  selefted, 
and  when  the  nest  is  finished,  or,  later,  when 
the  young  are  nearly  grown,  the  structure 
hangs  down  too  low  for  safety  or  sways  too 
violently  when  the  parent  birds  alight  on  it. 
This  is  a  difficulty  the  bird  has  to  contend  with, 


The  Building  of  the  Nest    93 

and  he  has  been  known  to  remedy  it  by  attach- 
ing a  cord  to  the  sustaining  twigs  and  tying 
them  to  a  higher  limb  of  the  tree,  thus 
securing  the  necessary  stability. 

A  more  familiar  evidence  of  the  intelligence 
of  birds  is  when  the  vireos  are  disturbed  by 
the  presence  of  a  cow-bird's  egg  in  their 
nest.  To  get  rid  of  it,  they  often  build  a 
new  floor  to  the  nest,  and  so  leave  the  offend- 
ing egg  to  spoil.  But  there  is  displayed  here 
an  error  of  judgment  that  I  am  surprised  to 
find.  The  birds  that  take  this  trouble  cer- 
tainly could  throw  the  egg  out,  and,  I  should 
think,  preserve  their  own  eggs,  which  in- 
variably are  left  to  decay  when  a  new  struft- 
ure  is  reared  above  the  old.  I  believe  even 
three-storied  vireos'  nests  have  been  found. 

There  is  one  common  swallow  that  is 
found  well-nigh  everywhere,  which  burrows 
into  the  sand ;  and  when  we  think  of  it,  it 
seems  strange  that  so  aerial  a  bird  should 
build  so  gloomy  an  abode  for  the  nesting 
season.  This  bank  swallow,  as  it  is  called, 
selects  a  suitable  bluff,  facing  water,  and, 
with  closed  beak,  turns  round  and  round 
with  its  head  to  the  ground,  thus  boring 
a  hole  big  enough  to  crawl  into.  It  turns 


94    The  Building  of  the  Nest 

into  a  gimlet  for  the  time,  and  uses  its  beak 
as  the  point  of  the  tool.  This  is  odd  work 
for  a  bird  that  almost  lives  in  the  air  j  and 
then  think,  too,  of  sitting  in  a  dark  cave, 
sometimes  six  feet  long,  until  the  eggs  are 
hatched.  On  the  other  hand,  the  barn  swal- 
low makes  a  nest  where  there  is  plenty  of 
light  and  air,  and  is  a  mason  rather  than  a 
carpenter  or  miner.  The  mud  he  uses  is 
not  mere  earth  and  water,  but  is  made  more 
adherent  by  a  trace  of  secretion  from  the 
bird's  mouth ;  at  least,  my  experiments  lead 
me  to  think  so.  To  build  such  a  nest  would 
be  slow  work  did  not  the  two  birds  work 
together  and  carry  their  little  loads  of  mortar 
with  great  rapidity.  They  waste  no  time, 
and  use  only  good  materials,  for  I  have 
noticed  them,  when  building,  go  to  a  quite 
distant  spot  for  the  mud  when  a  pool  was 
directly  outside  of  the  barn  in  which  they 
were  building.  To  all  appearance  the  nest 
is  of  sun-dried  mud,  but  the  material  has  cer- 
tainly undergone  a  kind  of  puddling  first  that 
makes  it  more  adherent,  bit  to  bit,  and  the 
whole  to  the  rafter  or  side  of  the  building. 
Again,  these  swallows  have  the  knack  of 
carrying  a  little  water  on  the  feathers  of 


The  Building  of  the  Nest    95 

their  breasts,  I  think,  and  give  the  structure 
a  shower-like  wetting  from  time  to  time. 
At  last  the  structure  "sets"  and  is  pra&ically 
permanent. 

There  are  birds  that  build  no  nests,  like 
the  kill-deer  plover  and  the  woodcock,  and 
yet  they  exercise  a  faculty  of  equal  value  in- 
tellectually ;  for  to  be  able  to  locate  a  spot 
that  will  be  in  the  least  degree  exposed  to 
danger  is  a  power  of  no  mean  grade.  The 
kill-deer  will  place  its  eggs  on  sloping  ground, 
but  somehow  the  heaviest  dashes  of  rain  do 
not  wash  out  that  particular  spot.  There 
are  sand-pipers  that  lay  their  eggs  on  a  bit 
of  dead  grass,  just  out  of  reach  of  the  highest 
tides.  As  we  look  at  such  nestsy  we  con- 
clude that  the  birds  trust  a  great  deal  to  good 
luck ;  but,  as  a  matter  of  faft,  the  destru&ion 
of  eggs  when  in  no  nests,  or  next  to  none,  is 
very  small.  Why,  on  the  other  hand,  wood 
peckers  should  go  to  such  an  infinity  of  trouble 
to  whittle  a  nest  in  the  firm  tissue  of  a  living 
tree,  when  a  natural  hollow  would  serve  as 
well,  is  a  problem  past  finding  out.  I  have 
even  seen  a  woodpecker  make  a  new  nest  in 
a  tree  which  already  contained  one  in  every 
respeft  as  good. 


96    The  Building  of  the  Nest 

Going  back  to  the  fields  and  thickets,  it 
will  be  seen  that  birds,  as  a  rule,  desire  that 
their  nests  should  be  inconspicuous,  and  their 
efforts  are  always  largely  in  this  direction  in 
the  construction.  The  foliage  of  the  tree  or 
bush  is  considered,  and  when  not  direftly 
concealed  by  this,  the  nest  is  made  to  look 
marvellously  like  a  natural  production  of  the 
vegetable  world,  as  the  beautiful  nest  of  our 
wood  pee-wee  or  the  humming-bird  shows. 
These  nests  are  then  not  merely  the  homes 
of  young  birds,  but  are  places  of  defence 
against  a  host  of  enemies.  The  parent  birds 
have  no  simple  task  set  before  them  that  can 
be  gone  through  with  mechanically  year  after 
year.  Every  season  new  problems  arise,  if 
their  favorite  haunts  suffer  change,  and  every 
year  the  birds  prove  equal  to  their  solution. 


CHAPTER  FIFTH 

FIDDLES 


T  T  is  a  merit  of  our  climate  that  at  no  time 
•*•  of  the  year  are  we,  as  children,  shut  out 
from  healthy  out-door  pleasure.  There  are 
shady  nooks  along  our  creeks  and  rivers  and 
delightful  old  mill-ponds  wherein  we  may 
bathe  in  midsummer,  and  there  are  acres  of 
glassy  ice  over  which  to  skate  in  midwinter. 
Spring  and  autumn  are  too  full  of  fun  to  par- 
ticularize, the  average  day  being  available  for 
scores  of  methods  whereby  to  make  life  a 
treasure  beyond  compare,  spending  it,  to  the 
mind  of  a  boy,  in  that  most  rational  way, 
having  sport.  I  do  not  know  why  we  always 
played  marbles  at  one  time  of  the  year  and 
flew  our  kites  at  another:  this  is  for  the 
folk-lore  clubs  to  fathom.  Suffice  it,  that 
there  has  been  for  centuries  a  time  for  every 
out-door  amusement  as  fixed  as  the  phases  of 
the  moon.  So  much  for  the  sport  common 
*  g  9  97 


98  Corn-stalk  Fiddles 

to  all  boys.  And  now  a  word  concerning  an 
old-time  musical  instrument  that  may  be  now 
quite  out  of  date, — the  corn-stalk  fiddle. 

This  very  primitive  musical  instrument  is 
associated  with  the  dreamy  Indian-summer 
days  of  late  November.  Then  it  discoursed 
delicious  music,  but  at  other  times  it  would 
have  been  <(  out  of  tune  and  harsh."  Did  the 
Indians  give  the  secret  to  the  children  of  our 
colonial  forefathers  ?  It  would  be  a  pleasing 
thought  whenever  the  toy  comes  to  mind,  as 
the  mere  suggestion  is  a  pleasant  fancy. 

The  husking  over,  the  corn-stalks  carted 
and  stored  in  a  huge  rick  by  the  barn-yard, 
the  apples  gathered,  the  winter  wood  cut,  and 
then  the  long  quiet,  with  almost  nothing  to  do. 
Such  was  the  routine  when  I  was  a  boy,  and 
if  the  uncertain,  dreamy  days  would  only 
come,  there  was  sure  to  be  a  short  round  of 
pleasure  wherein  the  fiddle  figured  more 
prominently  than  all  else. 

It  was  no  small  part  of  the  fun  to  see  Billy 
make  a  fiddle  ;  it  was  such  a  curious  combi- 
nation of  mummery  and  skill.  Having  whet- 
ted his  keen,  old-fashioned  Barlow  knife  on 
the  toe  of  his  boot,  he  would  flourish  it  above 
his  head  with  a  whoop  as  though  he  was 


Corn-stalk  Fiddles 


99 


looking  for  an  enemy  instead  of  a  corn-stalk. 
Finding  one  that  was  glossy  and  long  enough 
between  the  joints,  he  would  press  it  gently 
between  his  lips,  trying  the  several  sections, 
and  then  selecting  the  longest  and  most  glossy 
one.  So  much  of  the  proceeding  was  for  our 
benefit,  as  the  cunning  old  fellow  well  knew 
that  it  added  to  his  importance  in  our  eyes. 

What  followed  was  skill.  Having  cut  off 
the  stalk  above  and  below  the  ring-like  joints, 
he  had  now  a  convenient  piece  about  eight  or 
ten  inches  in  length.  This  he  warmed  by 
rubbing  it  violently  with  the  palm  of  his 
hand,  and  then  placing  the  point  of  the  knife 
as  near  the  joint  as  practicable,  he  drew  it 
quickly  down  to  the  next  joint  or  lower  end. 
It  must  be  a  straight  incision,  and  Billy  sel- 
dom failed  to  make  it  so.  A  parallel  one 
was  then  made,  not  more  than  one-sixteenth 
of  an  inch  distant.  A  space  of  twice  this 
width  was  left,  and  two  or  three  more  strings 
were  made  in  the  same  manner.  These  were 
freed  of  the  pith  adhering  to  their  under  sides, 
and  held  up  by  little  wooden  "  bridges,"  one 
at  each  end.  The  bow  was  similarly  fash- 
ioned, but  was  made  of  a  more  slender  sedlion 
of  corn-stalk  and  had  but  two  strings. 


ioo        Corn-stalk  Fiddles 

It  was  indeed  surprising  how  available  this 
crude  production  proved  as  a  musical  instru- 
ment. Youth  and  the  environment  counted 
for  a  great  deal,  of  course,  and  my  Quaker 
surroundings  forbidding  music,  it  was  a  sweeter 
joy  because  a  stolen  one. 

I  can  pidlure  days  of  forty  years  ago  as 
distinctly  as  though  a  matter  of  the  present. 
My  cousin  and  myself,  with  Black  Billy, 
would  often  steal  away  and  carry  with  us 
one  of  the  smaller  barn  doors.  This  we 
would  place  in  a  sunny  nook  on  the  south 
side  of  the  stalk-rick,  and  while  the  fiddle 
was  being  made,  would  part  with  our  jackets 
that  we  might  dance  the  better.  Billy  was 
soon  ready,  and  with  what  a  joyful  grin, 
rolling  of  his  huge  black  eyes,  and  vigorous 
contortion  of  the  whole  body  would  our 
faithful  friend  draw  from  the  corn-stalk  every 
note  of  many  a  quaint  old  tune !  And  how 
we  danced  !  For  many  a  year  after  the  old 
door  showed  the  nail-marks  of  our  heavily- 
heeled  shoes  where  we  had  brought  them 
down  with  a  vigor  that  often  roused  the  energy 
of  old  Billy,  until  he,  too,  would  stand  up  and 
execute  a  marvellous  pas  seut.  Then,  tired 
out,  we  would  rest  in  niches  in  the  stalk-rick, 


Corn-stalk  Fiddles        101 

and  Billy  would  play  such  familiar  airs  as  had 
penetrated  even  into  the  quiet  of  Quaker- 
dom.  It  was  no  mere  imitation  of  the  music, 
but  the  thing  itself;  and  it  would  be  an  hour 
or  more  before  the  fiddle's  strings  had  lost 
their  tension,  the  silicious  covering  had  worn 
away,  and  the  sweet  sounds  ceased. 

Almost  the  last  of  my  November  after- 
noons passed  in  this  way  had  a  somewhat 
dramatic  ending.  The  fiddle  was  one  of 
more  than  ordinary  excellence.  In  the 
height  of  our  fun  I  spied  the  brim  of  my 
grandfather's  hat  extending  an  inch  or  two 
around  the  corner.  I  gave  no  sign,  but 
danced  more  vigorously  than  ever,  and  as 
the  music  and  dancing  became  more  fast  and 
furious  the  crown  of  his  stiff  hat  appeared, 
and  then  my  grandfather's  face.  His  coun- 
tenance was  a  study.  Whether  to  give  the 
alarm  and  run  or  to  remain  was  the  decision 
of  an  instant.  I  gave  no  sign,  but  kept  one 
eye  on  him.  "Faster  !"  I  cried  to  Billy,  and, 
to  my  complete  astonishment,  the  hat  moved 
rapidly  up  and  down.  Grandfather  was 
keeping  time  !  "  Faster  !"  I  cried  again,  and 
the  music  was  now  a  shrieking  medley,  and 
the  broad-brimmed  hat  vibrated  wonderfully 


IO2        Corn-stalk  Fiddles 

fast.  It  was  too  much.  I  gave  a  wild  yell 
and  darted  off.  Circling  the  barn  and  stalk- 
rick,  I  entered  the  front  yard  with  a  flushed 
but  innocent  face,  and  met  grandpa.  He, 
too,  had  an  innocent,  far-away  look,  but  his 
hat  was  resting  on  the  back  of  his  head  and 
his  cheeks  were  streaming  with  perspiration, 
and,  best  of  all,  he  did  not  seem  to  know  it. 

"  Grandpa,"  I  asked  at  the  supper-table 
that  evening,  "does  thee  know  why  it  is  that 
savage  races  are  so  given  to  dancing  ?" 

"  Charles,"  he  replied,  gravely,  and  noth- 
ing more  was  said. 


CHAPTER  SIXTH 

THE  OLD  KITCHEJJ  DOOR 

'TpHE  white  porch,  with  its  high  roof  and 
•*•  two  severely  plain  pillars  to  support  it; 
the  heavy  door,  with  its  ponderous  knocker ; 
the  straggling  sweetbrier  at  one  side;  the 
forlorn  yellow  rose  between  the  parlor  win- 
dows ;  the  grass  that  was  too  cold  to  wel- 
come a  dandelion ;  the  low  box  hedge,  and 
one  huge  box  bush  that  never  sheltered  a 
bird's  nest ;  all  these  were  in  front  to 
solemnly  greet  that  terror  of  my  early  days, 
— company. 

To  me  these  front-door  features  all  meant, 
and  still  mean,  restraint ;  but  how  different 
the  world  that  lingered  about  the  old  farm- 
house kitchen  door!  There  was  no  cold 
formality  there,  but  freedom, — the  healthy 
freedom  of  old  clothes,  an  old  hat;  ay, 
even  the  luxury  of  an  open-throated  shirt 
was  allowed. 

103 


104    The  Old  Kitchen  Door 

After  a  tramp  over  the  meadows,  after  a 
day's  fishing,  after  the  round  of  the  rabbit- 
traps  in  winter,  what  joy  to  enter  the  kitchen 
door  and  breathe  in  the  deleclable  odor  of 
hot  gingerbread !  There  were  appetites  in 
those  days. 

I  do  not  understand  the  mechanism  of  a 
modern  kitchen :  it  looks  to  me  like  a  small 
machine-shop ;  but  the  old  farm  kitchen  was 
a  simple  affair,  and  the  intricacies  and  mys- 
tery lay  wholly  in  the  dishes  evolved.  It 
is  said  of  my  grandmother  that  a  whiff  .of 
her  sponge-cake  brought  the  humming-birds 
about.  I  do  know  there  was  a  crackly  crust 
upon  it  which  it  is  useless  now  to  try  to  imi- 
tate. 

But  the  door  itself — we  have  none  such 
now.  It  was  a  double  door  in  two  ways. 
It  was  made  of  narrow  strips  of  oak,  oblique 
on  one  side  and  straight  on  the  other,  and 
so  studded  with  nails  that  the  whole  affair 
was  almost  half  metal.  It  was  cut  in  two, 
having  an  upper  and  a  lower  seftion.  The 
huge  wooden  latch  was  hard  and  smooth  as 
ivory.  At  night  the  door  was  fastened  by 
a  hickory  bar,  which,  when  I  grew  strong 
enough  to  lift  it,  was  my  favorite  hobby-horse. 


The  Old  Kitchen  Door     105 

The  heavy  oak  sill  was  worn  in  the  mid- 
dle until  its  upper  surface  was  beautifully 
curved,  and  to  keep  the  rain  out,  when  the 
wind  was  south,  a  canvas  sand-bag  was  rolled 
against  it.  A  stormy-day  amusement  was  to 
pull  this  away  on  the  sly,  and  sail  tiny  paper 
boats  in  the  puddle  that  soon  formed  on  the 
kitchen  floor.  There  was  mischief  in  those 
days. 

Kitchens  and  food  are  of  course  insepara- 
bly connected,  and  what  hunting-ground  for 
boys  equal  to  the  closets  where  the  cakes 
were  kept  ?  I  do  not  know  that  the  matter 
was  ever  openly  discussed,  but  as  I  look  back 
it  seems  as  if  it  was  an  understood  thing 
that,  when  our  cunning  succeeded  in  outwit- 
ting auntie,  we  could  help  ourselves  to  jum- 
bles. Once  I  became  a  hero  in  this  line  of 
discovery,  and  we  had  a  picnic  behind  the 
lilacs;  but,  alas!  only  too  soon  we  were 
pleading  for  essence  of  peppermint.  Over- 
eating is  possible,  even  in  our  teens. 

Recent  raids  in  modern  kitchen  precin&s 
are  never  successful.  Of  late  I  always  put 
my  hand  in  the  wrong  crock,  and  find  pickles 
where  I  sought  preserves.  I  never  fail, 
now,  to  take  a  slice  of  a  reserved  cake,  or 


106    The  Old  Kitchen  Door 

to  quarter  the  pie  intended  for  the  next 
meal.  Age  brings  no  experience  in  such 
matters.  It  is  a  case  where  we  advance  back- 
ward. 

Of  the  almost  endless  phases  of  life  cen- 
tring about  the  kitchen  door  there  is  one 
which  stands  out  so  prominently  that  it  is 
hard  to  realize  the  older  aftor  is  now  dead 
and  that  of  the  young  on-lookers  few  are 
left.  Soon  after  the  dinner-horn  was  sounded 
the  farm  hands  gathered  at  the  pump,  which 
stood  just  outside  the  door,  and  then  in  solemn 
procession  filed  into  the  kitchen  for  the  noon- 
day meal.  All  this  was  prosy  enough,  but 
the  hour's  nooning  after  it, — then  there  was 
fun  indeed. 

Scipio — "  Zip,"  for  short — was  not  ill- 
natured,  but  then  who  loves  too  much  teas- 
ing? An  old  chestnut  burr  in  the  grass 
where  he  was  apt  to  lie  had  made  him  sus- 
picious of  me,  and  I  had  to  be  extra  cautious. 
Once  I  nearly  overstepped  the  mark.  Zip 
had  his  own  place  for  a  quiet  nap,  and,  when 
stretched  upon  the  grass  under  the  big  linden, 
preferred  not  to  be  disturbed.  Now  it  oc- 
curred to  me  to  be  very  funny.  I  whittled 
a  cork  to  the  shape  of  a  spider,  added  mon- 


The  Old  Kitchen  Door    107 

strous  legs,  and  with  glue  fastened  a  dense 
coating  of  chicken-down  over  all. 

It  was  a  fearful  spider. 

I  suspended  the  sham  insect  from  a  limb 
of  the  tree  so  that  it  would  hang  directly  over 
Zip's  face  as  he  lay  on  the  ground,  and  by 
a  black  thread  that  could  not  be  seen  I  could 
draw  it  up  or  let  it  down  at  pleasure.  It 
was  well  out  of  sight  when  Zip  fell  asleep, 
and  then  I  slowly  lowered  the  monster  until 
it  tickled  his  nose.  It  was  promptly  brushed 
aside.  This  was  repeated  several  times,  and 
then  the  old  man  awoke.  The  huge  spider 
was  just  touching  his  nose,  and  one  glance 
was  enough.  With  a  bound  and  a  yell  he  was 
up  and  off,  in  his  headlong  flight  overturn- 
ing the  thoughtless  cause  of  his  terror.  I 
was  the  more  injured  of  the  two,  but  never 
dared  in  after-years  to  ask  Zip  if  he  was 
afraid  of  spiders. 

And  all  these  years  the  front  door  never 
changed.  It  may  have  been  opened  daily 
for  aught  I  know,  but  I  can  remember  noth- 
ing of  its  history. 

Stay!  As  befitting  such  an  occurrence,  it 
was  open  once,  as  I  remember,  when  there 
was  a  wedding  at  the  house  ;  but  of  that 


io8    The  Old  Kitchen  Door 

wedding  I  recall  only  the  preparations  in  the 
kitchen  for  the  feast  that  followed;  and, 
alas !  it  has  been  opened  again  and  again  for 
funerals. 

Why,  indeed,  should  the  front  door  be 
remembered  ?  It  added  no  sunshine  to  the 
child's  short  summer ;  but  around  the  corner, 
whether  dreary  winter's  storm  or  the  fiercest 
heat  of  August  fell  upon  it,  the  kitchen  door 
was  the  entrance  to  a  veritable  elysium. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTH 

UP  THE  CREEK 


is  greater  merit  in  the  little  word 
"  up"  than  in  "  down."  If,  when  in 
a  place  new  to  me,  I  am  asked  to  go  "  up  the 
creek,"  my  heart  leaps,  but  there  is  less  en- 
thusiasm when  it  is  suggested  to  go  down  the 
stream.  One  seems  to  mean  going  into  the 
country,  the  other  into  the  town.  All  this 
is  illogical,  of  course,  but  what  of  that? 
The  fafts  of  a  case  like  this  have  not  the 
value  of  my  idle  fancies.  After  all,  there  is 
a  peculiar  merit  in  going  up-stream.  It  is 
something  to  be  going  deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  heart  of  the  country.  It  is  akin  to  get- 
ting at  the  foundations  of  things. 

In  the  case  of  small  inland  streams,  gen- 
erally, the  mouth  is  a  commonplace  affair. 
The  features  that  charm  shrink  from  the 
fateful  spot,  and  we  are  put  in  a  condition 
of  anticipation  at  the  start  which,  happily, 
10  109 


no  Up  the  Creek 

proves  one  of  abundant  realization  at  the 
finish. 

A  certain  midsummer  Saturday  was  not 
an  ideal  one  for  an  outing,  but  with  most  ex- 
cellent company  I  ventured  up  the  creek.  It 
was  my  friend's  suggestion,  so  I  was  free  from 
responsibility.  Having  promised  nothing,  I 
could  in  no  wise  be  justly  held  accountable. 
Vain  thought !  Direftly  I  suffered  in  their 
estimation  because,  at  mere  beck  and  nod, 
polliwogs  were  not  forthcoming  and  fishes 
refused  to  swim  into  my  hand.  What  strange 
things  we  fancy  of  our  neighbors !  Because 
I  love  the  wild  life  about  me,  one  young 
friend  thought  me  a  magician  who  could 
command  the  whole  creek's  fauna  by  mere 
word  of  mouth.  It  proved  an  empty  day 
in  one  respedl,  animal  life  scarcely  showing 
itself.  To  offer  explanations  was  of  no  avail, 
and  one  of  the  little  company  recast  her 
opinions.  Perhaps  she  even  entertains  some 
doubt  as  to  my  having  ever  seen  a  bird  or 
fish  or  the  coveted  polliwog. 

It  is  one  thing  to  be  able  to  give  the  name 
and  touch  upon  the  habits  of  some  captured 
creature,  and  quite  another  to  command  its 
immediate  presence  when  we  enter  its  haunts. 


Up  the  Creek  in 

This  always  should,  and  probably  never 
will,  be  remembered. 

But  what  of  the  creek,  the  one-time  Big- 
Bird  Creek  of  the  Delaware  Indians  ?  With 
ill-timed  strokes  we  pulled  our  languid  oars, 
and  passed  many  a  tree,  jutting  meadow,  or 
abandoned  wharf  worthy  of  more  than  a 
moment's  contemplation.  But,  lured  by  the 
treasure  still  beyond  our  reach,  we  went  on 
and  on,  until  the  trickling  waters  of  a  hill- 
side spring  proved  too  much  for  us,  and,  turn- 
ing our  prow  landward,  we  stopped  to  rest. 

Among  old  trees  that  afforded  grateful 
shade,  a  spring  that  bubbled  from  an  aged 
chestnut's  wrinkled  roots,  a  bit  of  babbling 
brook  that  too  soon  reached  the  creek  and 
was  lost,  and,  beyond  all,  wide-spreading 
meadows,  boundless  from  our  point  of  view 
— what  more  need  one  ask  ?  To  our  credit, 
be  it  said,  we  were  satisfied,  except,  perhaps, 
that  here,  as  all  along  our  course,  polliwogs 
were  perverse.  Birds,  however,  consider- 
ately came  and  went,  and  even  the  shy  cuckoo 
deigned  to  reply  when  we  imitated  his  dolo- 
rous clucking.  A  cardinal  grosbeak,  too, 
drew  near  and  whistled  a  welcome,  and  once 
eyed  us  with  much  interest  as  we  sat  lunching 


112  Up  the  Creek 

on  the  grass.  What  did  he  think  of  us  ?  Eat- 
ing, with  him,  is  so  different  a  matter,  and  per- 
haps he  could  give  us  a  few  useful  hints.  The 
trite  remark,  "  Fingers  came  before  forks," 
has  a  significance  in  the  woods,  if  not  in  the 
town.  While  eating  we  listened,  and  I  heard 
the  voices  of  nine  different  birds.  Some 
merely  chirped  in  passing,  it  is  true,  but  the 
marsh-wrens  in  the  cat-tail  thicket  just  across 
the  creek  were  not  silent  for  a  moment. 
Here  in  the  valley  of  the  Delaware,  as  I  re- 
cently found  them  on  the  shores  of  Chesa- 
peake Bay,  the  wrens  are  quite  noflurnal,  and 
I  would  have  been  'glad  to  have  heard  them 
sing  in  the  moonlight  again ;  for  our  enthu- 
siasm would  have  been  strengthened  by  a  few 
such  glimpses  of  the  night  side  of  Nature. 

No  bird  is  so  welcome  to  a  mid-day  camp 
as  the  white-eyed  vireo,  and  we  were  fortu- 
nate in  having  one  with  us  while  we  tarried 
at  the  spring.  Not  even  ninety  degrees  in 
the  shade  has  any  effecl:  upon  him,  and  this 
unflagging  energy  reafls  upon  the  listener. 
We  could  at  least  be  so  far  alive  as  to  give 
him  our  attention.  Mid-day  heat,  however, 
does  affeft  many  a  song-bird,  and  now  that 
nesting  is  well-nigh  over,  the  open  woods 


Up  the  Creek  113 

are  deserted  for  hidden  cool  retreats,  where 
the  songster  takes  its  ease,  as  we,  far  from 
town,  are  taking  ours.  There  is  much  in 
common  between  birds  and  men. 

How,  as  we  lingered  over  our  glasses, 
counting  the  lemon-seeds  embedded  in  sugar, 
we  would  have  enjoyed  a  wood-thrush's 
splendid  song  or  a  rose-breasted  grosbeak's 
matchless  melody !  but  the  to-whee  of  the 
pipilo  scratching  among  dead  leaves,  the 
plaint  of  an  inquisitive  cat-bird  threading 
the  briers,  the  whir  of  a  humming-bird 
vainly  seeking  flowers, — these  did  not  pass 
for  nothing ;  and  yet  there  was  comparative 
silence  that  suggested  a  sleeping  rather  than 
a  wakeful,  aftive  world. 

Here  let  me  give  him  who  loves  an  outing 
a  useful  hint :  be  not  so  anxious  for  what  may 
be  that  you  overlook  that  which  is  spread  be- 
fore you.  More  than  once  to-day  our  dis- 
cussion of  the  "  silence"  of  a  midsummer 
noontide  drowned  the  voices  of  singing-birds 
near  by. 

How  often  it  has  been  intimated  to  us  that 

"  two's  company  and  three's  a  crowd"  !  but 

to  really  see  and  hear  what  transpires  in  the 

haunts  of  wild  life,  one  is  company  and  two's 

h  10* 


H4  Up  the  Creek 

a  crowd.  We  cannot  heed  Nature  and  fel- 
low-man at  the  same  moment ;  and  as  to  the 
comparative  value  of  their  communications, 
each  must  judge  for  himself. 

Certainly  the  human  voice  is  a  sound  which 
animals  are  slow  to  appreciate.  How  often 
have  I  stood  in  silence  before  birds  and  small 
animals  and  they  have  shown  no  fear !  A 
movement  of  my  arms  would  put  them  on 
guard,  perhaps  ;  but  a  word  spoken,  and  away 
they  sped.  Not  a  bird,  I  have  noticed,  is 
startled  by  the  bellow  of  a  bull  or  the  neigh 
of  a  horse,  and  yet  my  own  voice  filled  them 
with  fear.  Even  snakes  that  knew  me  well 
and  paid  no  attention  to  my  movements  were 
startled  at  words  loudly  spoken.  It  is  a  bit 
humiliating  to  think  that  in  the  estimation  of 
many  a  wild  animal  our  bark  is  worse  than 
our  bite. 

A  midsummer  noontide  has  surely  some 
merit,  and  when  I  failed  to  find  fish,  frog,  or 
salamander  for  my  young  friend,  it  became 
necessary  to  point  to  some  feature  of  the  spot 
that  made  it  worth  a  visit.  To  my  discom- 
fiture, I  could  find  nothing.  Trees  have  been 
talked  of  overmuch,  and  there  were  no  wild 
flowers.  The  August  bloom  gave,  as  yet,  only 


Up  the  Creek  115 

a  hint  of  what  was  coming.  I  had  hit  upon 
a  most  unlucky  interim  during  which  no  man 
should  go  upon  a  picnic.  In  despair  and 
empty-handed,  we  took  to  our  boat  and  started 
up  the  creek.  It  was  a  fortunate  move,  for 
straightway  the  waters  offered  that  which  I 
had  vainly  sought  for  on  shore.  Here  were 
flowers  in  abundance.  The  pickerel-weed 
was  in  bloom,  the  dull-yellow  blossoms  of  the 
spatterdock  dotted  the  muddy  shores,  bind- 
weed here  and  there  offered  a  single  flower  as 
we  passed  by,  and  never  was  golden-dodder 
'more  luxuriant.  Still,  it  is  always  a  little  dis- 
appointing when  Flora  has  the  world  to  her- 
self, and  while  we  were  afloat  it  was  left  to 
a  few  crows  and  a  single  heron  to  prove  that 
she  had  not  quite  undisputed  sway. 

Up  the  creek  with  many  a  turn  and  twist, 
and  now  on  a  grassy  knoll  we  land  again, 
where  a  wonderful  spring  pours  a  great 
volume  of  sparkling  water  into  the  creek. 
Here  at  last  we  have  an  object  lesson  that 
should  bear  fruit  when  we  recall  the  day. 
Not  a  cupful  of  this  clear  cold  water  could 
we  catch  but  contained  a  few  grains  of  sand, 
and  for  so  many  centuries  has  this  carrying  of 
sand  grains  been  in  progress  that  now  a  great 


n6  Up  the  Creek 

ridge  has  choked  the  channel  where  once 
rode  ships  at  anchor.  An  obscure  back- 
country  creek  now,  but  less  than  two  cen- 
turies ago  the  scene  of  busy  industry.  Per- 
haps no  one  is  now  living  who  saw  the  last  sail 
that  whitened  the  landscape.  Pages  of  old 
ledgers,  a  bit  of  diary,  and  old  deeds  tell  us 
something  of  the  place ;  but  the  grassy  knoll 
itself  gives  no  hint  of  the  faft  that  upon  it 
once  stood  a  warehouse.  Yet  a  busy  place  it 
was  in  early  colonial  times,  and  now  utterly 
neglefted. 

It  is  difficult  to  realize  how  very  unsub- 
stantial is  much  of  man's  work.  As  we  sat 
upon  the  grassy  slope,  watching  the  out- 
going tide  as  it  rippled  and  broke  in  a  long 
line  of  sparkling  bubbles,  I  rebuilt,  for  the 
moment,  the  projecting  wharf,  of  which  but 
a  single  log  remains,  and  had  the  quaint 
shallops  of  pre-Revolutionary  time  riding  at 
anchor.  There  were  heard,  in  faft,  the  cry 
of  a  heron  and  the  wild  scream  of  a  hawk ; 
but  these,  in  fancy,  were  the  hum  of  human 
voices  and  the  tramp  of  busy  feet. 

The  scattered  stones  that  just  peeped  above 
the  grass  were  not  chance  bowlders  rolled 
from  the  hill  near  by,  but  the  door-step  and 


Up  the  Creek  117 

foundation  of  the  one-time  warehouse.  The 
days  of  buying,  selling,  and  getting  gain  came 
back,  in  fancy,  and  I  was  more  the  sturdy 
colonist  than  the  effeminate  descendant.  But 
has  the  present  no  merit?  We  had  the 
summer  breeze  that  came  freighted  with  the 
odors  gathered  from  the  forest  and  the  stream, 
and  there  were  thrushes  rejoicing  in  our  hear- 
ing that  the  hill-sides  were  again  as  Nature 
made  them.  It  meant  much  to  us  to  tarry 
in  the  shade  of  venerable  trees  spared  by 
the  merchants  that  once  collected  here, 
whose  names  are  now  utterly  forgotten. 
Stay  !  there  are  two  reminders  of  ancient 
glory.  A  beech  that  overhangs  the  brook 
has  its  bark  well  scarred,  and,  now  beyond 
decipherment,  there  are  initials  of  many 
prominent  naturalists  of  Philadelphia.  A 
few  rods  up-stream  is  another  beech  that  has 
remained  unchanged.  On  it  can  be  seen  the 
initials  T.  A.  C.,  1819;  those  of  the  cele- 
brated paleontologist,  Conrad,  born  near  here 
in  1803. 

The  shadows  lengthen ;  the  cooler  hours 
of  eventide  draw  on  ;  the  languid  thrushes 
are  again  abroad ;  music  fills  the  air.  We  are 
homeward  bound  and  hurrying  down-stream. 


n8  Up  the  Creek 

Our  minds  are  not  so  receptive  as  when  we 
started.  How  shrunken  to  a  few  rods  is 
every  mile !  Trees,  flowers,  and  birds  are 
scarcely  heeded;  but  the  good  gathered  as 
we  went  up  the  creek  we  bring  away,  and, 
once  again  in  the  dusty  village  street,  we 
realize  that  we  have  but  to  turn  our  back 
upon  the  town  to  find  the  world  a  picture. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTH 

A   WINfER-NIGHFS 
OUTING 


long  since  I  was  asked  —  and  not 
for  the  first  time  —  if  I  could  date  the 
beginning  of  my  taste  for  natural  history  pur- 
suits or  give  any  incident  that  appeared  to 
mark  a  turning-point  in  my  career. 

It  did  not  seem  possible  to  do  this,  on  first 
consideration  ;  but  a  recent  living  over  of  days 
gone  by  recalled  an  incident  which  happened 
before  I  was  eleven  years  old,  and,  as  it  was 
almost  my  first  regular  outing  that  smacked  of 
adventure,  it  is  probable  that  it  impressed  me 
more  forcibly  than  any  earlier  or,  indeed,  later 
events. 

Heavy  and  long-continued  rains  had  re- 
sulted in  a  freshet,  and  then  three  bitter  cold 
days  had  converted  a  wide  reach  of  mead- 
ows into  a  frozen  lake.  Happier  conditions 

119 


120    A  Winter-Night's  Outing 

could  not  have  occurred  in  the  small  boy's 
estimation,  and,  with  boundless  anticipation, 
we  went  skating. 

After  smooth  ice,  the  foremost  requirement 
is  abundant  room,  and  this  we  had.  There 
was  more  than  a  square  mile  for  each  of  us. 
The  day  had  been  perfeft  and  the  approach- 
ing night  was  such  as  Lowell  so  aptly  de- 
scribes, "  all  silence  and  all  glisten." 

As  the  sun  was  setting  we  started  a  roar- 
ing fire  in  a  sheltered  nook,  and  securely 
fastening  our  skates  without  getting  at  all 
chilled,  started  off.  Then  the  fun  com- 
menced. We  often  wandered  more  than  a 
mile  away,  and  it  was  not  until  the  fire  was 
reduced  to  a  bed  of  glowing  coals  that  we 
returned  to  our  starting-point. 

Here  a  great  surprise  awaited  us.  The 
heat  had  drawn  from  the  wooded  hill-side 
near  by  many  a  meadow-mouse  that,  moved  by 
the  warmth  or  by  curiosity,  ventured  as  near 
as  it  dared.  These  mice  were  equally  sur- 
prised at  seeing  us,  and  scampered  off,  but,  it 
seemed  to  me,  with  some  show  of  reluctance, 
as  if  a  chance  to  warm  themselves  so  thor- 
oughly should  not  be  missed. 

We  freshened  the  fire  a  little  and  fell  back 


A  Winter-Night's  Outing    121 

a  few  paces,  but  stood  near  enough  to  see  if 
the  mice  would  return.  This  they  did  in  a 
few  minutes,  and,  to  our  unbounded  surprise 
and  amusement,  more  than  one  sat  up  on  its 
haunches  like  a  squirrel.  They  seemed  to 
be  so  many  diminutive  human  beings  about  a 
camp-fire. 

It  was  a  sight  to  give  rise  to  a  pretty  fairy 
tale,  and  possibly  our  Indians  built  up  theirs 
on  just  such  incidents.  These  mice  were,  to 
all  appearances,  there  to  enjoy  the  warmth. 
There  was  little  running  to  and  fro,  no  squeak- 
ing, not  a  trace  of  unusual  excitement,  and, 
although  it  was  so  cold,  we  agreed  to  wait 
as  long  as  the  mice  saw  fit  to  stay. 

This  resolution,  however,  could  not  hold. 
We  were  getting  chilled,  and  so  had  to  draw 
near.  As  we  did  this,  there  was  a  faint 
squeaking  which  all  noticed,  and  we  concluded 
that  sentinels  had  been  placed  to  warn  the 
congregated  mice  of  our  approach. 

The  spirit  of  adventure  was  now  upon  us, 
and  our  skates  were  but  the  means  to  other 
ends  than  mere  sport.  What,  we  thought, 
of  the  gloomy  nooks  and  corners  where 
thickets  stood  well  above  the  ice  ?  We  had 
shunned  these  heretofore,  but  without  open 


122    A  Winter-Night's  Outing 

admission  that  we  had  any  fear  concerning 
them.  Then,  too,  the  gloomy  gullies  in  the 
hill-side  came  to  mind.  Should  we  skate 
into  such  darkness  and  startle  the  wild  life 
there  ? 

The  suggestion  was  made,  and  not  one 
dared  say  he  was  afraid. 

We  thought  of  the  fun  in  chasing  a  coon 
or  skunk  over  the  ice,  and  bravely  we  ven- 
tured, feeling  our  way  where  we  knew  the 
ice  was  thin  and  rough. 

At  a  bend  in  the  little  brook,  where  a  large 
cedar  made  the  spot  more  dark  and  forbidding, 
we  paused  a  moment,  not  knowing  just  how 
to  proceed. 

The  next  minute  we  had  no  time  for 
thought.  A  loud  scream  held  us  almost  spell- 
bound, and  then,  with  one  dash,  we  sought 
the  open  meadows. 

Once  there,  we  breathed  a  little  freer. 
We  could  see  the  fast-fading  light  of  the 
fire,  and  at  last  could  flee  in  a  known  direc- 
tion if  pursued.  Should  we  hurry  home  ? 
We  debated  this  for  some  time,  but  were 
more  fearful  of  being  laughed  at  than  of 
facing  any  real  danger,  and  therefore  con- 
cluded, with  proper  caution,  to  return. 


A  Winter-Night's  Outing    123 

Keeping  close  together,  we  entered  the 
ravine  again,  stopped  near  the  entrance  and 
kindled  a  fire,  and  then,  by  its  light,  pro- 
ceeded farther.  It  was  a  familiar  spot,  but 
not  without  strange  features  as  we  now 
saw  it. 

Again  we  were  startled  by  the  same  wild 
cry,  but  for  a  moment  only.  A  barn  owl,  I 
think  it  was,  sailed  by,  glaring  at  us,  as  we 
imagined,  and  sought  the  open  meadows. 

We  turned  and  followed,  though  why,  it 
would  be  hard  to  say.  The  owl  flew  slowly 
and  we  skated  furiously,  trying  to  keep  it  di- 
rectly overhead.  Now  we  were  brave  even 
to  foolhardiness,  and  sped  away  over  the  ice, 
indifferent  to  the  direction  taken.  To  this 
day  I  have  credited  that  owl  with  a  keen  sense 
of  humor. 

On  we  went,  over  the  meadows  to  where 
the  swift  but  shallow  creek  flowed  by, 
and  then,  when  too  late,  we  knew  where 
we  were.  The  ice  bent  beneath  us,  then 
cracked,  and  in  an  instant  we  were  through 
it,  our  feet  well  in  the  mud  and  the  water 
about  our  necks.  Just  how  we  got  out  I 
never  knew,  but  we  did,  and  the  one  dry 
match  among  us  was  a  veritable  treasure. 


124   A  Winter-Night's  Outing 

It  did  not  go  out  at  the  critical  moment,  but 
started  ablaze  the  few  twigs  we  hastily 
gathered,  and  so  saved  us  from  freezing.  As 
we  dried  our  clothes  and  warmed  our  be- 
numbed bodies,  I,  for  one,  vowed  never 
again  to  chase  an  owl  on  skates,  but  to  go  at 
it  more  soberly.  From  that  eventful  night 
the  country  has  been  attractive  by  reason  of 
its  wild  life.  It  was  there  I  became — if 
indeed  I  ever  have  become — a  naturalist. 


CHAPTER  NINTH 

WILD  LIFE  IN  WAVER 

"  'T'HE  antelope  has  less  reason  to  fear  the 
•*•  lion  than  has  the  minnow  to  dread 
the  pike.  We  think  of  timid  antelopes  and 
roaring  lions,  but  the  former  has  good  use  of 
its  limbs,  and  so  a  fighting  chance  for  its  life ; 
but  the  minnows  have  little  advantage  in  the 
struggle  for  existence,  and  none  at  all  when 
the  predatory  fishes  are  in  pursuit  of  them." 

This  was  written  in  a  note-book  more  than 
thirty  years  ago,  and  I  let  it  stand  as  evidence 
of  how  easy  it  is  to  be  in  error  in  matters  of 
natural  history. 

When  I  went  to  school  there  was  but  one 
teacher  of  the  five  that  knew  anything  about 
such  matters,  and  he  had  the  old-time  views. 
Then  a  fish  was  a  mere  machine  so  far  as  in- 
telligence was  concerned.  We  were  told  of 
the  cunning  of  foxes  and  the  instinct  of  ants 
and  bees,  but  never  a  word  of  fishes. 
n*  125 


126       Wild  Life  in  Water 

The  truth  is,  I  might  very  properly  speak 
of  wild  "  wit"  in  the  water  instead  of  "  life," 
for  there  can  be  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt 
but  that  many  of  our  fishes  are  really  cunning. 
We  need  but  watch  them  carefully  to  be 
readily  convinced  of  this.  How  else  could 
they  escape  danger  ? 

The  pretty  peacock  minnows  throng  the 
grassy  beach  at  high  tide,  playing  with  their 
fellows  in  water  just  deep  enough  to  cover 
them,  and  are,  when  here,  very  tame  and 
careless.  They  even  get  stranded  upon  the 
airy  side  of  floating  leaves,  and  enjoy  the  ex- 
citement. They  realize,  it  would  seem,  that 
where  they  are  no  pike  can  rush  down  upon 
them,  no  snake  work  its  way  unseen  among 
them,  no  turtle  crawl  into  their  playground ; 
but  as  the  tide  goes  out  and  these  minnows 
are  forced  nearer  to  the  river's  channel,  they 
lose  their  carelessness  and  are  suspicious  of 
all  about  them. 

To  call  this  instinctive  fear  and  result  of 
heredity  sounds  well;  but  the  naturalist  is 
brought  nearer  to  the  wild  life  about  him 
when  he  credits  them  simply  with  common 
sense.  The  charm  of  watching  such  "  small 
deer"  vanishes  if  we  lean  too  much  on  the 


Wild  Life  in  Water        127 

learned  and  scientific  solutions  of  the  com- 
parative psychologist,  and  possibly,  too,  we 
wander  further  from  the  truth.  All  I  posi- 
tively know  is,  that  when  danger  really  exists 
the  minnows  are  aware  of  it ;  when  it  is  ab- 
sent they  throw  off  the  burden  of  this  care, 
and  life  for  a  few  hours  is  a  matter  of  pure 
enjoyment. 

Brief  mention  should  be  made  of  the  pro- 
teftive  character  of  the  coloring  of  certain 
fishes.  If  such  are  fortunate  enough  to  be 
protectively  colored,  there  is  little  to  be  said ; 
but  are  they  conscious  of  this  ?  Does  a  fish 
that  is  green  or  mottled  green  and  gray  keep 
closely  to  the  weeds,  knowing  that  it  is  safer 
there  than  when  in  open  water  or  where  the 
bottom  is  covered  with  white  sand  and  peb- 
bles ?  This  may  be  a  rather  startling  question, 
but  there  is  warrant  for  the  asking.  Float 
half  a  day  over  the  shallows  of  any  broad 
pond  or  stream,  study  with  care  and  without 
preconception  the  fishes  where  they  live,  and 
you  will  ask  yourself  not  only  this  question, 
but  many  a  stranger  one.  If  fish  are  fools, 
how  is  it  that  the  angler  has  so  generally  to 
tax  his  ingenuity  to  outwit  them  ?  How  closely 
Nature  must  be  copied  to  deceive  a  trout ! 


128       Wild  Life  in  Water 

Having  said  so  much  of  small  fishes,  what 
now  of  the  larger  ones  that  prey  upon  them  ? 
A  pike,  for  instance  ?  Probably  many  more 
people  have  studied  how  to  catch  a  pike  than 
have  considered  it  scientifically.  It  is  tire- 
some, perhaps,  but  if  a  student  of  natural  his- 
tory really  desires  to  know  what  a  fish  adlually 
is,  he  must  watch  it  for  hours,  being  himself 
unseen. 

At  one  time  there  were  several  large  pike 
in  my  lotus  pond.  Under  the  huge  floating 
leaves  of  this  splendid  plant  they  took  refuge, 
and  it  was  difficult  to  catch  even  a  glimpse 
of  them.  At  the  same  time  the  schools  of 
minnows  seemed  to  enjoy  the  sunlight  and 
sported  in  the  open  water.  More  than  once, 
however,  I  saw  a  pike  rush  out  from  its 
cover,  and  finally  learned  that  it  systematically 
lay  in  wait  for  the  minnows ;  and  I  believe 
I  am  justified  in  adding  that  the  minnows 
knew  that  danger  lurked  under  the  lotus 
leaves. 

The  situation  was  not  so  hap-hazard  a  one 
as  might  appear  at  first  glance,  and  hours  of 
patient  watching  convinced  me  that  there  was 
a  decided  exercising  of  ingenuity  on  the  part 
of  both  the  pike  and  the  minnows ;  the  for- 


Wild  Life  in  Water        129 

mer  ever  on  the  lookout  for  a  viftim,  the 
latter  watchful  of  an  ever-present  danger. 
Day  long  it  was  a  tragedy  where  brute  force 
counted  for  little  and  cunning  for  a  great 
deal. 

Another  very  common  fish  in  my  pond 
was  likewise  very  suggestive  in  connexion 
with  the  subject  of  animal  intelligence.  I 
refer  to  the  common  "  sunny,"  or  "  pumpkin- 
seed."  A  shallow  sand-nest  had  been  scooped 
near  shore  and  the  precious  eggs  deposited. 
A  school  of  silvery-finned  minnows  had  dis- 
covered them,  and  the  parent  fish  was  severely 
taxed  in  her  efforts  to  proteft  them. 

So  long  as  this  school  of  minnows  re- 
mained together,  the  sunfish,  by  fierce  rushes, 
kept  them  back ;  but  soon  the  former — was 
it  accident  or  design  ? — divided  their  forces, 
and  as  the  parent  fish  darted  at  one  assaulting 
party,  the  other  behind  it  made  a  successful 
raid  upon  the  nest.  This  continued  for  some 
time,  and  the  sunfish  was  getting  quite  weary, 
when,  as  if  a  sudden  thought  struck  it,  its 
tallies  changed,  and  it  swam  round  and  round 
in  a  circle  and  sent  a  shower  of  sand  out  into 
the  space  beyond  the  nest.  This  effectually 
dazed  the  minnows. 


130       Wild  Life  in  Water 

Little  incidents  like  this  are  forever  oc- 
curring and  effectually  set  aside  the  once 
prevalent  idea  that  fish  are  mere  living  ma- 
chines. Look  a  pike  in  the  eye  and  you 
will  deteft  something  very  different  from 
mere  instinctive  timidity. 

But  fish  are  not  the  only  creatures  that  live 
in  the  water ;  there  are  one  snake  and  several 
species  of  turtles,  and  frogs,  mollusks,  and 
insefts  innumerable.  These  are  too  apt  to 
be  associated  with  the  land,  and,  except  the 
two  latter  forms,  are  usually  thought  of  as 
taking  to  the  water  as  a  place  of  refuge,  but 
really  living  in  the  open  air.  This  is  a  great 
mistake.  There  is  a  lively  world  beneath 
the  surface  of  the  water,  and  the  tragedy  of 
life  is  played  to  the  very  end,  with  here  and 
there  a  pretty  comedy  that  wards  off  the 
blues  when  we  look  too  long  and  see  nothing 
but  the  destruction  of  one  creature  that  an- 
other may  live. 

Here  is  an  example  of  cunning  or  wit  in  a 
water-snake.  A  friend  of  mine  was  recently 
sitting  on  the  bank  of  a  little  brook,  when 
his  attention  was  called  to  a  commotion 
almost  at  his  feet.  Looking  down,  he  saw  a 
snake  holding  its  head  above  the  water,  and 


Wild  Life  in  Water        131 

in  its  mouth  struggled  a  small  sunfish.  Now, 
what  was  the  snake's  purpose  ?  It  knew  very 
well  that  the  fish  would  drown  in  the  air,  and 
not  until  it  was  dead  could  it  be  swallowed 
with  that  deliberation  a  snake  loves.  The 
creature  was  cunning  enough  to  kill  by  easy 
means  prey  that  would  otherwise  be  diffi- 
cult to  overcome,  for  while  crosswise  in  the 
snake's  mouth  it  could  not  be  swallowed, 
and  if  put  down  for  an  instant  the  chances 
of  its  recapture  would  be  slight. 

To  suppose  that  a  turtle,  as  you  watch  it 
crawling  over  the  mud,  has  any  sense  of 
humor  in  its  horny  head  seems  absurd ;  yet 
naturalists  have  recorded  their  being  seen  at 
play,  and  certainly  they  can  readily  be  tamed 
to  a  remarkable  degree.  Their  intelligence, 
however,  shows  prominently  only  in  the 
degree  of  cunning  exhibited  when  they  are 
in  search  of  food.  The  huge  snapper  "  lies 
in  wait,"  and  truly  this  is  a  most  sugges- 
tive and  comprehensive  phrase.  I  believe, 
too,  that  this  fierce  turtle  buries  surplus  food, 
and  so  gives  further  evidence  of  intellectual 
activity. 

To  realize  what  wild  life  in  the  water 
really  is  it  must  be  observed  where  Nature 


132       Wild  Life  in  Water 

has  placed  it.  It  is  perhaps  not  so  much  set 
forth  by  exceptional  incidents  that  the  student 
happens  to  witness  as  by  that  general  appear- 
ance of  common  sense  which  is  so  unmistaka- 
bly stamped  upon  even  the  most  common- 
place movements.  Writers  upon  animal 
intelligence  do  not  need  to  be  constantly  on 
the  lookout  for  special  exhibitions  of  cunning 
in  order  to  substantiate  the  claims  they  make 
in  favor  of  life's  lower  forms.  It  is  plainly 
enough  to  be  seen  if  we  will  but  patiently 
watch  whensoever  these  creatures  come  and 
wheresoever  they  go  and  the  manner  of  their 
going  and  coming. 

Do  not  be  so  intent  upon  watching  for  the 
marvellous  that  ordinary  incidents  are  not 
seen.  In  studying  wild  life  everywhere, 
and  perhaps  more  particularly  in  the  water, 
to  be  rightly  informed  we  must  see  the  aver- 
age individual  amid  commonplace  surround- 
ings. Doing  this,  we  are  not  mis-informed 
nor  led  to  form  too  high  an  opinion.  It  is 
as  in  the  study  of  humanity.  We  must  not 
familiarize  ourselves  with  the  mountebank, 
but  with  man. 


CHAPTER  TENTH 

AN  OLD-FASHIONED 
GARDEN 

E  world  at  large  is  a  most  intricate 
machine,  and  parts  viewed  separately 
give  no  hint  of  their  importance  to  what 
appear  quite  independent  objects.  Man  may 
dissociate  without  destroying,  but,  when  he 
does  so,  his  constant  attention  must  then  take 
the  place  of  the  afts  that  Nature  designed 
other  conditions  of  life  should  perform. 
The  isolated  plant,  for  instance,  is  destroyed 
by  insefts  unless  we  protect  it  by  a  glass 
covering  or  a  poison-bath  :  Nature  gave  it  to 
the  birds  to  protedl:  the  plant,  and  in  so 
doing  find  food  for  themselves.  This  law 
of  interdependence  is  made  very  plain  in  the 
case  of  a  modern  garden  or  the  trim  lawns 
of  a  large  city,  and  in  less  degree  applies 
to  towns  and  villages.  The  caterpillar 


134   An  Old-fashioned  Garden 

nuisance  that  requires  the  collaring  of  shade- 
trees  with  cotton-wool  to  proteft  their  foli- 
age illustrates  this ;  and  what  an  example  is 
a  modern  garden  filled  to  overflowing  with 
exotic  plants !  An  all-important  feature  is 
wanting, — birds;  for,  except  English  spar- 
rows, we  have  none,  and  these  are  worse 
than  useless. 

It  was  not  always  so,  and  the  cause  of  the 
deplorable  change  is  not  hard  to  find.  When- 
ever we  chance,  in  our  wanderings,  to  come 
upon  some  long-negledled  corner  of  colonial 
times,  there  we  will  find  the  bloom  and  birds 
together.  I  have  said  "  neglefted  ;"  not 
quite  that,  for  there  was  bloom,  and  the 
birds  are  excellent  gardeners. 

Let  me  particularize.  My  garden  is  a 
commonplace  affair,  with  the  single  innova- 
tion of  a  tub  sunk  in  the  ground  to  accom- 
modate a  lotus, — so  commonplace,  indeed, 
that  no  passer-by  would  notice  it ;  and  yet 
during  a  single  summer  afternoon  I  have 
seen  within  its  boundaries  fifteen  species  of 
birds.  At  that  hottest  hour  of  the  midsum- 
mer day,  two  P.M.,  while  looking  at  the 
huge  pink  blossoms  of  the  classic  lotus,  my 
attention  was  called  to  a  quick  movement 


An  Old-fashioned  Garden    135 

on  the  ground,  as  if  a  rat  ran  by.  It  proved 
to  be  an  oven-bird,  that  curious  combination 
of  thrush  and  sand-piper,  and  yet  neither, 
but  a  true  warbler.  It  peered  into  every 
nook  and  corner  of  the  shrubbery,  poised  on 
the  edge  of  the  sunken  lotus-tub,  caught  a 
wriggling  worm  that  came  to  the  surface  of 
the  water,  then  teetered  along  the  fence  and 
was  gone.  Soon  it  returned,  and  came  and 
went  until  dark,  as  much  at  home  as  ever  in 
the  deep  recesses  of  unfrequented  woods. 
As  the  sun  went  down,  the  bird  sang  once 
with  all  the  spring-tide  ardor,  and  brought 
swiftly  back  to  me  many  a  long  summer's 
day  ramble  in  the  country.  It  is  something 
to  be  miles  away  from  home  while  sitting  on 
your  own  door-step. 

Twice  a  song-sparrow  came,  bathed  in 
the  lotus-tub,  and,  when  not  foraging  in  the 
weedy  corners,  sang  its  old-fashioned  song, 
now  so  seldom  heard  within  town  limits. 
The  bird  gave  me  two  valuable  hints  as  to 
garden  management.  Water  is  a  necessity 
to  birds  as  well  as  to  any  other  form  of  life, 
and  shelter  is  something  more  than  a  mere 
attraction.  Was  it  not  because  the  birds 
happened  to  be  provided  with  them  to-day 


136    An  Old-fashioned  Garden 

that  I  had,  as  I  have  had  the  summer  long, 
more  birds  than  my  neighbors  ? 

How  seldom  do  we  see  the  coral  honey- 
suckle, and  how  generally  the  trumpet-creeper 
has  given  place  to  exotic  vines  of  far  more 
striking  bloom,  but,  as  will  appear,  of  less 
utility !  If  the  old-time  vines  that  I  have 
mentioned  bore  less  showy  flowers,  they  had 
at  least  the  merit  of  attracting  humming- 
birds, that  so  grandly  rounded  out  our  com- 
plement of  summer  birds.  These  feathered 
fairies  are  not  difficult  to  see,  even  though  so 
small,  and,  if  so  inclined,  we  can  always 
study  them  to  great  advantage.  They  be- 
come quite  tame,  and  in  the  old-fashioned 
gardens  were  always  a  prominent  feature  by 
reason  of  their  numbers.  They  are  not 
forever  on  the  wing,  and  when  preening 
their  feathers  let  the  sunshine  fall  upon  them, 
and  we  have  emeralds  and  rubies  that  cost 
nothing,  but  are  none  the  less  valuable  be- 
cause of  this.  In  changing  the  botanical 
features  of  our  yards  we  have  had  but  one 
thought,  gorgeous  flowers ;  but  was  it  wise 
to  give  no  heed  to  the  loss  of  birds  as  the 
result  ?  I  fancy  there  are  many  who  would 
turn  with  delight  from  formal  clusters  of 


An  Old-fashioned  Garden    137 

unfamiliar  shrubs,  however  showy,  to  a 
gooseberry  hedge  or  a  lilac  thicket  with 
song-sparrows  and  a  cat-bird  hidden  in  its 
shade.  We  have  been  unwise  in  this  too 
radical  change.  We  have  abolished  bird- 
music  in  our  eagerness  for  color,  gaining  a 
little,  but  losing  more.  We  have  paid  too 
dear,  not  for  a  whistle,  but  for  its  loss.  But 
it  is  not  too  late.  Carry  a  little  of  the  home 
forest  to  our  yards,  and  birds  will  follow  it. 
And  let  me  here  wander  to  an  allied  matter, 
that  of  the  recently-established  Arbor  Day. 
What  I  have  just  said  recalls  it. 

To  merely  transplant  a  tree,  move  it  from 
one  spot  to  another,  where  perhaps  it  is  less 
likely  to  remain  for  any  length  of  time  than 
where  it  previously  stood,  is,  it  seems  to  me, 
the  very  acme  of  folly.  The  chances  are 
many  that  the  soil  is  less  suitable,  and  so 
growth  will  be  retarded,  and  the  world  is 
therefore  not  one  whit  the  better  off.  There 
is  far  too  much  tree-planting  of  this  kind 
on  Arbor  Day.  In  many  an  instance  a  plot 
of  ground  has  been  replanted  year  after 
year.  I  fancy  we  will  have  to  reach  more 
nearly  to  the  stage  of  tree  appreciation  before 
Arbor  Day  will  be  a  pre-eminent  success. 


138    An  Old-fashioned  Garden 

Can  we  not,  indeed,  accommodate  ourselves 
a  little^more  to  the  trees  growing  where  Na- 
ture planted  them  ?  I  know  a  village  well, 
where  the  houses  are  placed  to  accommodate 
the  trees  that  stood  there  when  the  spot  was 
a  wilderness.  The  main  street  is  a  little 
crooked,  but  what  a  noble  street  it  is !  I 
recall,  as  I  write  these  lines,  many  a  Friends' 
meeting-house,  and  one  country  school, 
where  splendid  oaks  are  standing  near  by, 
and  to  those  who  gather  daily  or  weekly 
here,  whether  children  or  grown  people, 
the  trees  are  no  less  dear  than  the  buildings 
beside  them.  The  wanderer  who  revisits 
the  scenes  of  his  childhood  looks  first  at  the 
trees  and  then  at  the  houses.  Tree-wor- 
ship, we  are  told,  was  once  very  prevalent, 
and  it  is  not  to  be  regretted  that  in  a  modi- 
fied form  it  still  remains  with  us. 

As  a  practical  matter,  let  me  here  throw 
out  the  suggestion  that  he  will  be  doing  most 
excellent  work  who  saves  a  tree  each  year. 
This  is  a  celebration  that  needs  no  special 
day  set  forth  by  legislative  enaftment.  How 
often  I  have  heard  farmers  remark,  "  It  was 
a  mistake  to  cut  those  trees  down" !  Of  course 
it  was.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten  the  value 


An  Old-fashioned  Garden    139 

of  the  trees  felled  proves  less  than  was  ex- 
pefted,  and  quickly  follows  the  realization  of 
the  faft  that  when  standing  their  full  value 
was  not  appreciated.  Think  of  cutting  down 
trees  that  stand  singly  or  in  little  groups  in 
the  middle  of  fields  because  it  is  a  trouble  to 
plant  around  them,  or  for  the  reason  that 
they  shade  the  crops  too  much !  What  of 
the  crop  of  comfort  such  trees  yield  to  both 
man  and  beast  when  these  fields  are  past- 
ures ?  "  But  there  is  no  money  in  shade- 
trees."  I  cannot  repress  my  disgust  when 
I  hear  this,  and  I  have  heard  it  often.  Is 
there  genuine  manhood  in  those  who  feel 
this  way  towards  the  one  great  ornament  of 
our  landscape  ? 

It  is  not — more's  the  pity — within  the 
power  of  every  one  to  plant  a  tree,  but  those 
who  cannot  need  not  stand  idly  by  on  Arbor 
Day.  Here  is  an  instance  where  half  a  loaf 
is  better  than  no  bread.  Many  a  one  can 
plant  a  shrub.  How  often  there  is  an  un- 
sightly corner,  even  in  the  smallest  enclosure, 
where  a  tall  tree  would  be  a  serious  obstruc- 
tion, whereon  can  be  grown  a  thrifty  bush, 
one  that  will  be  a  constant  source  of  pleasure 
because  of  its  symmetry  and  bright  foliage, 


140    An  Old-fashioned  Garden 

and  for  a  time  doubly  attra&ive  because  of 
its  splendid  blossoming  !  We  know  too  little 
of  the  many  beautiful  flowering  shrubs  that 
are  scattered  through  every  woodland,  which 
are  greatly  improved  by  a  little  care  in  culti- 
vation, and  which  will  bear  transplanting. 
We  overlook  them  often,  when  seen  grow- 
ing in  the  forest,  because  they  are  small, 
irregular,  and  often  sparse  of  bloom,  But 
remember,  in  the  woods  there  is  a  fierce 
struggle  for  existence,  and  when  this  is  over- 
come the  full  beauty  of  the  shrub's  stature 
becomes  an  accomplished  faft. 

Here  is  a  short  list  of  common  shrubs, 
every  one  of  which  is  hardy,  beautiful  in 
itself,  and  can  be  had  without  other  cost  or 
labor  than  a  walk  in  the  country,  for  I  do 
not  suppose  any  land-owner  would  refuse  a 
"  weed,"  as  they  generally  call  these  humble 
plants.  The  spicewood  (Lindera  benzoin), 
which  bears  bright  golden  flowers  before  the 
leaves  appear;  the  shad-bush  (AneUncbier 
canadensis),  with  a  wealth  of  snowy  blossoms, 
which  are  increased  in  number  and  size  by  a 
little  attention,  as  judicious  trimming;  and 
the  "  bush"  of  the  wild-wood  can  be  made 
to  grow  to  a  beautiful  miniature  tree.  The 


An  Old-fashioned  Garden    141 

well-known  pinxter  flower  (Azalea  nudi- 
caule)  is  improved  by  cultivation,  and  can  be 
made  to  grow  "  stocky"  and  thick-set,  in- 
stead of  scragged,  as  we  usually  find  it.  Its 
bright  pink  blossoms  make  a  grand  show- 
ing in  May.  There  is  a  little  wild  plum 
(Prunus  spinosa)  which  only  asks  to  be 
given  a  chance  and  then  will  rival  the  famous 
deutzias  in  profusion  of  bloom,  and  after- 
wards remains  a  sturdy  tree-like  shrub,  with 
dark-green  foliage  that  is  always  attractive. 
This,  too,  blooms  before  the  foliage  is  de- 
veloped, and  hints  of  spring  as  surely  as  the 
robin's  song.  A  larger  but  no  less  handsome 
bush  is  the  white  flowering  thorn  (Crat<zgus 
crus-galli),  and  there  are  wild  spireas  that 
should  not  be  overlooked,  and  two  white  flow- 
ering shrubs  that  delight  all  who  see  them  in 
bloom,  the  deer-berry  (Vaccinium  stamineum}, 
and  the  "  false-teeth"  (Leucotboe  racemosa). 
All  these  are  spring  flowers.  And  now  a 
word  about  an  August  bloomer,  the  sweet 
pepper -bush  (Cletbra  alnifolia).  This  is 
easily  grown  and  is  a  charming  plant. 

It  happens,  too,  that  a  place  can  be  found 
for  a  hardy  climber,  and  as  beautiful  as  the 
coral  honeysuckles  of  our  grandmother's  days 


142    An  Old-fashioned  Garden 

is  the  climbing  bittersweet  (Celastrus  scan- 
dens).  The  plant  itself  is  attractive.  Its 
vigorous  growth  soon  covers  the  support 
provided  for  it,  and  in  autumn  and  through- 
out the  winter  its  golden  and  crimson  fruit 
hangs  in  thick-set  clusters  upon  every  branch. 

Considering  how  frequently  near  the  house 
there  are  unsightly  objects,  and  how  depress- 
ing it  is  to  be  forever  looking  upon  ugliness, 
it  is  strange  that  the  abundant  means  for 
beautifying  waste  places  are  so  persistently 
neglefted.  With  one  or  more  of  the  plants 
I  have  named,  an  eyesore  may  be  changed  to 
a  source  of  pleasure,  and  it  was  Beecher,  I 
think,  who  said,  "  A  piece  of  color  is  as  use- 
ful as  a  piece  of  bread."  He  never  spoke 
more  truly. 

And  what  of  the  old-time  arbors,  with  the 
straggling  grape-vine,  and  perhaps  a  rude 
wren-box  perched  at  the  entrance  ?  Is  there 
better  shade  than  the  grape-vine  offers,  a 
sweeter  odor  than  its  bloom  affords,  or  more 
charming  music  than  the  song  of  the  restless 
house-wren  ?  Certainly  there  have  been  no 
improvements  upon  these  features  of  the  old- 
time  garden :  yet  how  seldom  do  we  see 
them  now !  We  must  travel  far,  too,  to 


An  Old-fashioned  Garden     143 

find  a  martin -box.  As  a  matter  of  faft, 
the  bluebird,  wren,  and  martin  might,  if  we 
chose,  be  restored  to  the  very  hearts  of  our 
largest  towns.  People  have  no  more  terror 
for  them  than  for  the  English  sparrow,  and 
they  can  all  hold  out  against  these  piratical 
aliens,  if  we  would  consider  their  few  and 
simple  needs.  The  wrens  need  but  nesting- 
boxes  with  an  entrance  through  which  the 
shoulders  of  a  sparrow  cannot  pass  ;  and  the 
bluebirds  and  martins  require  only  that  their 
houses  be  closed  during  the  winter  and  very 
early  spring,  or  until  they  have  returned  from 
their  winter-quarters.  This  is  easily  done, 
and  when  the  birds  are  ready  to  occupy  the 
accommodations  provided  for  them  they  will 
take  possession  and  successfully  hold  the  forts 
against  all  intruders.  This  is  not  a  fancy 
merely,  suggested  as  the  basis  of  experimen- 
tation, but  is  the  result  of  the  experience 
of  several  people  in  widely-separated  locali- 
ties. I  vividly  recall  visiting  at  a  house  in  a 
large  town,  where  purple  martins  for  more 
than  fifty  years  had  occupied  boxes  placed 
upon  the  eaves  of  a  one-story  kitchen. 

While  stress  is  laid  upon  the  importance 
of  regaining  the  presence  in  town  of  these 


144    An  Old-fashioned  Garden 

birds,  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  they  are 
all  that  are  available.  There  are  scores  of 
wild  birds,  known  only  to  the  ornithologist, 
that  can  be  "  cultivated"  as  readily  as  the 
wild  shrubbery  that  under  startling  names 
figures  in  many  a  florist's  catalogue.  Give 
them  a  foothold,  and  they  will  come  to  stay. 
Orioles,  thrushes,  vireos,  fly-catchers,  are 
not  unreasonably  afraid  of  man,  and  would 
quickly  acquire  confidence  if  they  were  war- 
ranted in  so  doing.  How  long  would  a 
scarlet  tanager  or  a  cardinal  grosbeak  remain 
unmolested  if  it  appeared  in  any  city  street  ? 
Here  is  the  whole  matter  in  a  nutshell :  the 
birds  are  not  averse  to  coming,  but  the  people 
will  not  let  them.  This  is  the  more  strange, 
when  we  remember  that  hundreds  of  dollars 
were  spent  to  accommodate  the  pestiferous 
imported  sparrow,  that  is  and  always  must 
be  a  positive  curse.  Hundreds  for  sparrows, 
and  not  one  cent  for  a  bluebird !  While  the 
mischief  can  never  be  undone,  it  can  be  held 
in  check,  if  we  will  but  take  the  trouble, 
and  this  is  a  mere  matter  of  town-garden 
rearrangement ;  and  why,  indeed,  not  treat 
our  ears  to  music  as  well  as  our  eyes  to  color 
and  our  palates  to  sweetness  ?  Plant  here 


An  Old-fashioned  Garden     145 

and  there  a  bush  that  will  yield  you  a  crop 
of  birds.  That  this  may  not  be  thought 
merely  a  whim  of  my  own,  let  me  quote  from 
the  weather  record  of  Dr.  John  Conrad,  who 
for  forty  years  was  the  apothecary  of  the 
Pennsylvania  Hospital,  in  Philadelphia.  This 
institution,  bear  in  mind,  is  in  the  heart  of 
the  city,  not  in  its  outskirts.  Under  date  of 
March  23,  1862,  he  records,  "Crocus  and 
snow-drop  came  into  bloom  last  week  and 
are  now  fully  out."  Again,  he  says,  "  Orioles 
arrived  on  April  8,  after  the  fruit-trees  burst 
into  bloom."  Here  we  have  a  migratory 
bird  in  the  city  three  weeks  earlier  than  its 
usual  appearance  in  the  country,  but  I  do  not 
think  the  doftor  was  mistaken.  I  have  posi- 
tive knowledge  of  the  fail:  that  he  was  a  good 
local  ornithologist.  Under  date  of  June, 
1 866,  Conrad  writes,  "  A  very  pleasant  June. 
Fine  bright  weather,  and  only  one  week  too 
warm  for  comfort.  The  roses  bloomed  well 
(except  the  moss-rose)  and  for  the  most  part 
opened  better  than  usual.  The  garden  full 
of  birds,  and  insefts  less  abundant  than  usual. 
Many  blackbirds  reared  their  young  in  our 
trees,  and  as  many  as  sixteen  or  twenty  have 
been  counted  on  the  lawn  at  one  time.  Cat- 
G  k  13 


146    An  Old-fashioned  Garden 

birds,  orioles,  thrushes,  wrens,  vireos,  robins, 
etc.,  abound  and  make  our  old  hospital  joyous 
with  their  sweet  songs." 

During  the  summer  of  1892  I  was  twice 
in  the  hospital  grounds,  with  which  I  was 
very  familiar  during  my  uncle's — Dr.  Con- 
rad's— lifetime,  and  I  heard  only  English 
sparrows,  although  I  saw  two  or  three  native 
birds.  It  was  a  sad  change.  Think  of 
being  able  to  speak  of  your  garden  as  "  full 
of  birds,"  —  as  "joyous  with  their  sweet 
songs."  This,  not  long  ago,  could  truthfully 
be  done.  Will  it  ever  be  possible  to  do  so 
again  ? 


CHAPTER  ELEVENTH 

AN  INDIAN  TRAIL 

TT  was  a  strange  coincidence.  A  farmer 
•*•  living  near  by  employed  an  Indian  from 
the  school  at  Carlisle,  and  now  that  the  work 
of  the  summer  was  over,  this  taciturn  youth 
walked  daily  over  a  hill  to  a  school-house 
more  than  a  mile  away,  and  the  path  leading 
to  it  was  an  Indian  trail. 

Not  long  since  I  met  the  lad  on  this  very 
path  returning  from  school,  and  when  he 
passed  I  stood  by  an  old  oak  and  watched 
him  until  lost  among  the  trees,  walking  where 
centuries  ago  his  people  had  walked  when 
going  from  the  mountain  village  and  rock 
shelters  along  an  inland  creek  to  the  distant 
town  by  the  river. 

As  you  looked  about  from  the  old  oak  there 
was  no  public  road  or  house  in  sight ;  nothing 
but  trees  and  bushes,  huge  rocks,  and  one 
curious  jutting  ledge  that  tradition  holds  is  a 


148          An  Indian  Trail 

veritable  relic  of  prehistoric  time, — a  place 
where  council  fires  were  lit  and  midnight 
meetings  held. 

Whether  tradition  is  true  or  not,  the  place 
was  a  fitting  one  whereat  to  tarry  and  fall 
a-thinking.  Happy,  indeed,  could  the  old 
oak  have  spoken. 

Many  a  public  road  of  recent  date  has  been 
built  on  the  line  of  an  old  trail,  as  many 
a  town  and  even  city  have  replaced  Indian 
villages;  but  take  the  long-settled  regions 
generally,  the  ancient  landmarks  are  all  gone, 
and  a  stray  potsherd  or  flint  arrow-point  in 
the  fields  is  all  that  is  left  to  recall  the  days 
of  the  dusky  aborigines. 

Only  in  the  rough,  rocky,  irreclaimable 
hills  are  we  likely  now  to  be  successful,  if 
such  traces  as  a  trail  are  sought  for. 

It  was  so  here.  Bald-top  Hill  is  of  little 
use  to  the  white  man  except  for  the  firewood 
that  grows  upon  its  sides  and  the  scattered 
game  that  still  linger  in  its  thickets.  As 
seen  from  the  nearest  road,  not  far  off,  there 
is  nothing  now  to  suggest  that  an  Indian  ever 
clambered  about  it.  The  undergrowth  hides 
every  trace  of  the  surface ;  but  after  the  leaves 
drop  and  a  light  snow  has  fallen,  a  curious 


An  Indian  Trail          149 

white  line  can  be  traced  from  the  base  of 
the  summit ;  this  is  the  old  trail. 

It  is  a  narrow  path,  but  for  so  long  a 
time  had  it  been  used  by  the  Indians  that, 
when  once  pointed  out,  it  can  still  be  fol- 
lowed without  difficulty.  It  leads  now  from 
one  little  intervale  to  another :  from  farmer 
A  to  farmer  B;  but  originally  it  was  part 
of  their  long  highway  leading  from  Phila- 
delphia to  Easton,  perhaps.  It  matters  not. 
Enough  to  know  that  then,  as  now,  there 
were  towns  almost  wherever  there  was  land 
fit  for  dwellings,  and  paths  that  led  from  one 
to  the  other.  It  is  clear  that  the  Indians 
knew  the  whole  country  well.  The  routes 
they  finally  chose  resulted  from  long  experi- 
ence, and  were  as  direct  as  the  nature  of  the 
ground  made  possible. 

The  study  of  trails  opens  up  to  us  a  broader 
view  of  ancient  Indian  life  than  we  are  apt 
to  entertain. 

We  find  the  sites  of  villages  on  the  banks 
of  the  rivers  and  larger  inflowing  streams  ; 
travel  by  canoes  was  universal.  No  locality 
was  so  favorable  as  the  open  valley,  and  here 
the  greater  number  of  Indians  doubtless 
dwelt.  But  the  river  and  its  fertile  shores 
13* 


150          An  Indian  Trail 

could  not  yield  all  that  this  people  needed : 
they  had  to  draw  from  the  resources  of  the 
hills  behind  them.  They  soon  marked  the 
whole  region  with  a  net-work  of  trails  leading 
to  the  various  points  whence  they  drew  the 
necessities  of  life.  The  conditions  of  the 
present  day  are  laid  down  on  essentially  the 
same  lines  as  then. 

An  Indian  town  was  not  a  temporary  tent 
site,  or  mere  cluster  of  wigwams,  here  to-day 
and  miles  away  to-morrow;  nor  did  these 
people  depend  solely  upon  the  chase.  Be- 
side the  trail  over  which  I  recently  passed 
was  a  great  clearing  that  had  been  an  orchard. 
We  can  yet  find  many  a  barren  spot  that  is 
rightly  known  to  the  people  of  to-day  as 
an  Indian  field.  So  persistently  were  their 
cornfields  cropped  that  at  last  the  soil  was 
absolutely  exhausted,  and  has  not  yet  re- 
covered its  fertility. 

There  was  systematic  bartering,  too,  as  the 
red  pipe-stone  or  catlinite  from  Minnesota 
and  obsidian  from  the  more  distant  North- 
west, found  on  the  Atlantic  coast,  as  well  as 
ocean  shells  picked  up  in  the  far  interior,  all 
testify.  There  was  also  periodical  journey- 
ing in  autumn  from  inland  to  the  sea-coast  to 


An  Indian  Trail  151 

gather  supplies  of  oysters,  clams,  and  other 
"  sea  food,"  which  were  dried  by  smoking 
and  then  "strung  as  beads  and  carried  as 
great  coils  of  rope"  back  to  the  hills  to  be 
consumed  during  the  winter. 

Many  small  colonies,  too,  passed  the  win- 
ters on  the  coast  in  the  shelter  of  the  great 
pine  forests  that  extended  to  the  very  ocean 
beach.  It  was  no  hap-hazard  threading  of  a 
wilderness  to  reach  these  distant  points.  The 
paths  were  well  defined,  well  used.  For  how 
long  we  can  only  conjecture,  but  the  vast  ac- 
cumulations of  shells  on  the  coast,  often  now 
beneath  the  water,  point  to  a  time  so  distant 
that  the  country  wore  a  different  aspecl:  from 
what  it  now  does  ;  a  time  when  the  land  rose 
far  higher  above  the  tide  and  extended  sea- 
ward where  now  the  ocean  rolls  resistlessly. 

Returning  inland,  let  us  trace  another  of 
these  old-time  paths  from  the  river-shore 
whereon  the  Indians  had  long  dwelt,  over 
hill  and  dale  until  we  reach  a  valley  hemmed 
in  by  low,  rolling  hills. 

It  is  a  pretty  spot  still,  although  marred  by 
the  white  man's  work ;  but  why  was  it  the 
goal  of  many  a  weary  journey  ? 

Here  is  found  the  coveted  jasper,  varied  in 


152          An  Indian  Trail 

hue  as  autumn  leaves  or  a  summer  sunset. 
The  quick  eye  of  some  wandering  hunter,  it 
may  be,  found  a  chance  fragment,  and,  look- 
ing closer,  saw  that  the  ground  on  which  he 
stood  was  filled  with  it ;  or  a  freshet  may 
have  washed  the  soil  from  an  outcropping  of 
the  mineral.  Who  can  tell  ?  It  must  suffice 
to  know  that  the  discovery  was  made  in 
time,  and  a  new  industry  arose.  No  other 
material  so  admirably  met  the  Indian's  need 
for  arrow-points,  for  the  blades  of  spears,  for 
knives,  drills,  scrapers,  and  the  whole  range 
of  tools  and  weapons  in  daily  use. 

So  it  came  that  mining  camps  were  estab- 
lished. To  this  day,  in  these  lonely  hills, 
we  can  trace  out  the  great  pits  the  Indians 
dug,  find  the  tools  with  which  they  toiled, 
and  even  the  ashes  of  their  camp-fires,  where 
they  slept  by  night.  So  deeply  did  the 
Indian  work  the  land  wheresoever  he  toiled 
that  even  the  paths  that  led  from  the  mines 
to  the  distant  village  have  not  been  wholly 
blotted  out. 

The  story  of  the  jasper  mines  has  yet  to 
be  told,  and  it  may  be  long  before  the  full 
details  are  learned  concerning  the  various 
processes  through  which  the  mineral  passed 


An  Indian  Trail  153 

before  it  came  into  use  as  a  finished  produft. 
Much  vain  speculation  has  been  indulged  in ; 
the  fancied  method  of  reducing  a  thick  blade 
to  a  thin  one  has  been  elaborately  described, 
although  never  carried  out  by  any  human 
being;  in  short,  the  impossible  has  been 
boldly  asserted  as  a  fadi  beyond  question. 

The  Indian's  history  can  be  read  but  in 
small  part  from  the  handiwork  that  he  has 
left  behind. 

One  phase  of  it,  in  the  valley  of  the  Dela- 
ware, is  more  clearly  told  than  all  else, — the 
advance  from  a  primitive  to  a  more  cultured 
status.  There  were  centuries  during  which 
jasper  was  known  only  as  river-pebbles,  and 
its  discovery  in  abundance  had  an  influence 
upon  Indians  akin  to  that  upon  Europe's 
stone-age  people  when  they  discovered  the 
use  of  metals.  At  least  here  in  the  valley  of 
the  Delaware  this  is  true. 

It  is  vain  to  ask  for  the  beginning  of  man's 
career  in  this  region  ;  what  we  find  but  hints 
at  it.  But  he  came  when  there  were  no 
trails  over  the  hills,  no  path  but  the  icy  river's 
edge  ;  only  as  the  centuries  rolled  by  was  the 
country  developed  to  the  extent  of  knowing 
every  nook  and  corner  of  the  land,  and  high- 


154          An  Indian  Trail 

ways  and  by-ways  became  common,  like  the 
roads  that  now  reach  out  in  every  direction. 

A  "  trail,"  then,  has  a  wealth  of  meaning, 
and  those  who  made  it  were  no  "  mere  sav- 
ages," as  we  so  glibly  speak  of  the  Indians, 
thanks  to  the  average  school-books. 

The  haughty  Delawares  had  fields  and  or- 
chards; they  had  permanent  towns;  they 
mined  such  minerals  as  were  valuable  to 
them  ;  they  had  weapons  of  many  patterns  ; 
they  were  jewellers  in  a  crude  way,  and  fin- 
ished many  a  stone  ornament  in  a  manner  that 
still  excites  admiration.  They  were  travellers 
and  tradesmen  as  well  as  hunters  and  warriors. 

Although  my  day's  search  for  relics  of  these 
people  had  yielded  but  a  few  arrow-points, 
potsherds,  and  a  stone  axe,  when  I  saw  the 
Indian  on  his  way  from  school,  walking  in  the 
very  path  his  people  had  made  long  centuries 
ago,  the  story  of  their  ancient  sojourn  here 
came  vividly  to  mind  in  the  dim  light  of  an  au- 
tumn afternoon,  when  a  golden  mist  wrapped 
the  hills  and  veiled  the  valleys  beyond,  and  I 
had  a  glimpse  of  pre-Columbian  America. 


CHAPTER  TWELFTH 

A  PRE-COLUMBIAN 
DINNER 

\  PONDEROUS  geologist,  with  weighty 
**•  tread  and  weightier  manner,  brought 
his  foot  down  upon  the  unoffending  sod  and 
declared,  "  These  meadows  are  sinking  at  a 
rapid  rate ;  something  over  two  feet  a  cen- 
tury." We  all  knew  it,  but  Sir  Oracle  had 
spoken,  and  we  little  dogs  did  not  dare  to  bark. 
Not  long  after  I  returned  alone  to  these  ill- 
fated  meadows  and  began  a  leisurely,  all-day 
ramble.  They  were  very  beautiful.  There 
was  a  wealth  of  purple  and  of  white  boneset 
and  iron-weed  of  royal  dye.  Sunflower  and 
primrose  gilded  the  hidden  brooks,  and  every 
knoll  was  banked  with  rose-pink  centaury. 
Nor  was  this  all.  Feathery  reeds  towered 
above  the  marsh,  and  every  pond  was  em- 
purpled with  pontederia  and  starred  with 

'55 


156    A  Pre-Columbian  Dinner 

lilies.  Afar  off,  acres  of  nut-brown  sedge 
made  fitting  background  for  those  meadow 
trafts  that  were  still  green,  while  close  at 
hand,  more  beautiful  than  all,  were  struggling 
growths  held  down  by  the  golden-dodder's 
net  that  overspread  them. 

It  does  not  need  trees  or  rank  shrubbery  to 
make  a  wilderness.  This  low-lying  tradt  to- 
day, with  but  a  summer's  growth  above  it,  is 
as  wild  and  lonely  as  are  the  Western  plains. 
Lonely,  that  is,  as  man  thinks,  but  not  for- 
saken. The  wily  mink,  the  pert  weasel,  the 
musk-rat,  and  the  meadow-mouse  ramble  in 
safety  through  it.  The  great  blue  heron,  its 
stately  cousin,  the  snowy  egret,  and  the  dainty 
least  bittern  find  it  a  congenial  home. 

The  fiery  dragon-fly  darts  and  lazy  butter- 
flies drift  across  the  blooming  waste ;  bees 
buzz  angrily  as  you  approach  ;  basking  snakes 
bid  you  defiance.  Verily,  this  is  wild  life's 
domain  and  man  is  out  of  place. 

It  was  not  always  so.  The  land  is  sink- 
ing, and  what  now  of  that  older  time  when 
it  was  far  above  its  present  level, — a  high, 
dry,  upland  traft,  along  which  flowed  a  clear 
and  rapid  stream  ?  The  tell-tale  arrow-point 
is  our  guide,  and  wherever  the  sod  is  broken 


A  Pre-Columbian  Dinner     157 

we  have  an  inkling  of  Indian  history.  The 
soil,  as  we  dig  a  little  deeper,  is  almost  black 
with  charcoal-dust,  and  it  is  evident  that 
centuries  ago  the  Indians  were  content  to 
dwell  here,  and  well  they  might  be.  Even 
in  colonial  days  the  place  had  merit,  and  es- 
caped not  the  eager  eyes  of  Penn's  grasping 
followers.  It  was  meadow  then,  and  not 
fitted  for  his  house,  but  the  white  man  built 
his  barn  above  the  ruins  of  his  dusky  prede- 
cessor's home.  All  trace  of  human  habita- 
tion is  now  gone,  but  the  words  of  the  ge- 
ologist kept  ringing  in  my  ears,  and  of  late 
I  have  been  digging.  It  is  a  little  strange 
that  so  few  traces  of  the  white  man  are  found 
as  compared  with  relics  of  the  Indian.  From 
the  barn  that  once  stood  here  and  was  long 
ago  destroyed  by  a  flood  one  might  expect  to 
find  at  least  a  rusty  nail. 

The  ground  held  nothing  telling  of  a  re- 
cent past,  but  was  eloquent  of  the  long  ago. 
Dull  indeed  must  be  the  imagination  that 
cannot  recall  what  has  been  here  brought 
to  light  by  the  aid  of  such  an  implement 
as  the  spade.  Not  only  were  the  bow  and 
spear  proved  to  be  the  common  weapons 
of  the  time,  but  there  were  in  even  greater 


158    A  Pre-Columbian  Dinner 

abundance,  and  of  many  patterns,  knives  to 
flay  the  game.  It  is  not  enough  to  merely 
glance  at  a  trimmed  flake  of  flint  or  care- 
fully-chipped splinter  of  argillite,  and  say  to 
yourself,  "  A  knife."  Their  great  variety 
has  a  significance  that  should  not  be  over- 
looked. The  same  implement  could  not 
be  put  to  every  use  for  which  a  knife  was 
needed ;  hence  the  range  in  size  from  several 
inches  to  tiny  flakes  that  will  likely  remain  a 
puzzle  as  to  their  purpose. 

Besides  home  produfts,  articles  are  found 
that  have  come  from  a  long  distance,  and 
no  class  of  objefts  is  more  suggestive  than 
those  that  prove  the  widely-extended  system 
of  barter  that  prevailed  at  one  time  among 
the  Indians  of  North  America.  There  are 
shells  and  shell  ornaments  found  in  Wis- 
consin which  must  have  been  taken  there 
from  the  shores  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico ; 
catlinite  or  red  pipe-stone  ornaments  and 
pipes  found  in  New  Jersey  that  could  only 
have  come  from  Minnesota.  Shell  beads  are 
often  found  in  graves  in  the  Mississippi  Valley 
that  were  brought  from  the  Pacific  coast,  and 
the  late  Dr.  Leidy  has  described  a  shell  bead, 
concerning  which  he  states  that  it  is  the  Conus 


A  Pre-Columbian  Dinner    159 

ternatus,  a  shell  which  belongs  to  the  west 
coast  of  Central  America.  This  was  found, 
with  other  Indian  relics,  in  Hartman's  Cave, 
near  Stroudsburg,  Pennsylvania.  Two  small 
arrow-points  found  in  New  Jersey  a  year  or 
more  ago  proved  to  be  made  of  obsidian. 
These  specimens  could  only  have  come  from 
the  far  South-west  or  from  Oregon,  and  the 
probabilities  are  in  favor  of  the  latter  locality. 
It  is  not  unlikely  that  objedls  like  the  above 
should  find  their  way  inland  to  the  Great 
Lakes,  and  so  across  the  continent  and  down 
the  Atlantic  coast.  On  the  other  hand, 
arrow-points  could  have  had  so  little  intrinsic 
value  in  the  eyes  of  an  Indian  that  we  are 
naturally  surprised  that  they  should  have 
been  found  so  far  from  their  place  of  origin. 
Obsidian  has  occurred  but  very  rarely  east 
of  the  Alleghanies,  so  far  as  I  am  aware. 
In  the  Sharpies  collection,  at  West  Chester, 
Pennsylvania,  is  a  single  specimen,  reported 
to  have  been  found  near  that  place,  and  a  few 
traces  have  since  been  discovered  in  the  up- 
lands immediately  adjoining  these  Delaware 
meadows,  and  really  there  is  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  objects  of  value  should  not  have 
passed  quite  across  the  continent,  or  been 


160    A  Pre-Columbian  Dinner 

carried  from  Mexico  to  Canada.  There  were 
no  vast  areas  absolutely  uninhabited  and  across 
which  no  Indian  ever  ventured. 

It  has  been  suggested  that,  as  iron  was 
manufactured  in  the  valley  of  the  Delaware 
as  early  as  1728,  the  supposed  obsidian 
arrow-points  are  really  made  of  slag  from  the 
furnaces,  but  a  close  examination  of  the  speci- 
mens proves,  it  is  claimed,  this  not  to  have 
been  the  case,  and  at  this  comparatively  late 
date  the  making  of  stone  arrow-points  had 
probably  ceased.  Just  when,  however,  the 
use  of  the  bow  as  a  weapon  was  discarded 
has  not  been  determined,  but  fire-arms  were 
certainly  common  in  1728  and  earlier. 

A  careful  study,  too,  of  copper  imple- 
ments, which  are  comparatively  rare,  seems 
to  point  to  the  conclusion  that  very  few  were 
made  of  the  native  copper  found  in  New 
Jersey,  Maryland,  and  elsewhere  along  the 
Atlantic  coast,  but  that  they  were  made  in 
the  Lake  Superior  region  and  thence  grad- 
ually dispersed  over  the  Eastern  States.  The 
large  copper  spear  from  Betterton,  Maryland, 
recently  found,  and  another  from  New  Jersey, 
bear  a  striking  resemblance  to  the  spear-heads 
from  the  North-west,  where  unquestionably 


A  Pre-Columbian  Dinner    161 

the  most  expert  of  aboriginal  coppersmiths 
lived.  Of  course,  the  many  small  beads  of 
this  metal  occasionally  found  in  Indian  graves 
in  the  Delaware  Valley  might  have  been  made 
of  copper  found  near  by,  but  large  masses  are 
very  seldom  met  with. 

Speaking  of  copper  beads  recalls  the  faft 
that  a  necklace  comprising  more  than  one 
hundred  was  recently  found  on  the  site  of 
an  old  Dutch  trader's  house,  on  an  island  in 
the  Delaware.  They  were  of  Indian  manu- 
facture, and  had  been  in  the  fur  trader's  pos- 
session, if  we  may  judge  from  the  facl:  that 
they  were  found  with  hundreds  of  other 
relics  that  betokened  not  merely  European, 
but  Dutch  occupation  of  the  spot.  This 
trader  got  into  trouble  and  doubtless  de- 
served his  summary  taking  off. 

It  is  not  "  a  most  absurd  untruth,"  as  was 
stated  not  long  ago  in  the  Critic  in  a  review 
of  a  New  York  history,  that  the  Indians  were 
"  a  people  of  taste  and  industry,  and  in  morals 
quite  the  peers  of  their  Dutch  neighbors." 
They  had  just  as  keen  a  sense  of  right  and 
wrong.  There  never  was  a  handful  of  colo- 
nists in  North  America  whose  whole  history 
their  descendants  would  care  to  have  known. 
/  14* 


162    A  Pre-Columbian  Dinner 

The  truth  is,  we  know  very  little  of  the 
Indian  prior  to  European  contaft.  Carpet- 
knight  archaeologists  and  kid-gloved  explorers 
crowd  the  pages  of  periodical  literature,  it 
is  true,  but  we  are  little,  if  any,  the  wiser. 

It  is  supposed,  and  is  even  asserted,  that 
the  Indian  knew  nothing  of  forks ;  but  that 
he  plunged  his  fingers  into  the  boiling  pot  or 
held  in  his  bare  hands  the  steaming  joints  of 
bear  or  venison  is  quite  improbable.  Now, 
the  archaeologist  talks  glibly  of  bone  awls 
whenever  a  sharpened  splinter  of  bone  is 
presented  him,  as  if  such  instruments  were 
only  intended  to  perforate  leather.  They 
doubtless  had  other  uses,  and  I  am  sure  that 
more  than  one  split  and  sharpened  bone  which 
has  been  found  would  have  served  excellently 
well  as  a  one-tined  fork  wherewith  to  lift  from 
the  pot  a  bit  of  meat.  Whether  or  not  such 
forks  were  in  use,  there  were  wooden  spoons, 
as  a  bit  of  the  bowl  and  a  mere  splinter  of  the 
handle  serve  to  show.  Kalm  tells  us  that  they 
used  the  laurel  for  making  this  utensil,  but  I 
fancied  my  fragment  was  hickory.  Potsherds 
everywhere  spoke  of  the  Indians'  feasting, 
and  it  is  now  known  that,  besides  bowls  and 
shallow  dishes  of  ordinary  sizes,  they  also 


A  Pre-Columbian  Dinner    163 

had  vessels  of  several  gallons'  capacity.  All 
these  are  broken  now,  but,  happily,  fragments 
of  the  same  dish  are  often  found  together, 
and  so  we  can  reconstruct  them. 

But  what  did  the  Indians  eat  ?  Quaint  old 
Gabriel  Thomas,  writing  about  1696,  tells 
us  that  "  they  live  chiefly  on  Maze  or  Indian 
Corn  rosted  in  the  Ashes,  sometimes  beaten 
boyl'd  with  Water,  called  Homine.  They 
have  cakes,  not  unpleasant ;  also  Beans  and 
Pease,  which  nourish  much,  but  the  Woods 
and  Rivers  afford  them  their  provision  ;  they 
eat  morning  and  evening,  their  Seats  and 
Tables  on  the  ground." 

In  a  great  measure  this  same  story  of  The 
Indians'  food  supply  was  told  by  the  scattered 
bits  found  mingled  with  the  ashes  of  an  ancient 
hearth.  Such  fireplaces  or  cooking  sites  were 
simple  in  construction,  but  none  the  less 
readily  recognized  as  to  their  purpose.  A  few 
flat  pebbles  had  been  brought  from  the  bed  of 
the  river  near  by,  and  a  small  paved  area  some 
two  feet  square  was  placed  upon  or  very  near 
the  surface  of  the  ground.  Upon  this  the 
fire  was  built,  and  in  time  a  thick  bed  of 
ashes  accumulated.  Just  how  they  cooked 
can  only  be  conjeftured,  but  the  discovery  of 


164    A  Pre-Columbian  Dinner 

very  thick  clay  vessels  and  great  quantities 
of  fire-cracked  quartzite  pebbles  leads  to  the 
conclusion  that  water  was  brought  to  the 
boiling-point  by  heating  the  stones  to  a  red 
heat  and  dropping  them  into  the  vessel  hold- 
ing the  water.  Thomas,  as  we  have  seen, 
says  corn  was  "  boyl'd  with  Water."  Meat 
also  was,  I  think,  prepared  in  the  same  man- 
ner. Their  pottery  probably  was  poorly 
able  to  stand  this  harsh  treatment,  which 
would  explain  the  presence  of  such  vast  quan- 
tities of  fragments  of  clay  vessels.  Traces  of 
vegetable  food  are  now  very  rarely  found.  A 
few  burnt  nuts,  a  grain  or  two  of  corn,  and, 
in  one  instance,  what  appeared  to  be  a  charred 
crab-apple,  complete  the  list  of  what,  as  yet, 
have  been  picked  from  the  mingled  earth  and 
ashes.  This  is  not  surprising,  and  what  we 
know  of  vegetable  food  in  use  among  the 
Delaware  Indians  is  almost  wholly  derived 
from  those  early  writers  who  were  present 
at  their  feasts.  Kalm  mentions  the  roots  of 
the  golden-club,  arrow-leaf,  and  ground-nut, 
besides  various  berries  and  nuts.  It  is  well 
known  that  extensive  orchards  were  planted 
by  these  people.  It  may  be  added  that,  in 
all  probability,  the  tubers  of  that  noble  plant, 


A  Pre-Columbian  Dinner    165 

the  lotus,  were  used  as  food.  Not  about 
these  meadows,  but  elsewhere  in  New  Jersey, 
this  plant  has  been  growing  luxuriantly  since 
Indian  times. 

Turning  now  to  the  consideration  of  what 
animal  food  they  consumed,  one  can  speak 
with  absolute  certainty.  It  is  clear  that  the 
Delawares  were  meat-eaters.  It  needs  but 
little  digging  on  any  village  site  to  prove  this, 
and  from  a  single  fireplace  deep  down  in  the 
stiff  soil  of  this  sinking  meadow  have  been 
taken  bones  of  the  elk,  deer,  bear,  beaver, 
raccoon,  musk-rat,  and  gray  squirrel.  Of 
these,  the  remains  of  deer  were  largely  in  ex- 
cess, and  as  this  holds  good  of  every  village 
site  I  have  examined,  doubtless  the  Indians 
depended  more  largely  upon  this  animal  than 
upon  all  the  others.  Of  the  list,  only  the 
elk  is  extincl:  in  the  Delaware  Valley,  and 
it  was  probably  rare  even  at  the  time  of  the 
European  settlement  of  the  country,  except 
in  the  mountain  regions.  If  individual  tastes 
varied  as  they  do  among  us,  we  have  certainly 
sufficient  variety  here  to  have  met  every  fancy. 

With  a  food  supply  as  varied  as  this,  an 
ordinary  meal  or  an  extraordinary  feast  can 
readily  be  recalled,  so  far  as  its  essential  feat- 


1 66    A  Pre-Columbian  Dinner 

ures  are  concerned.  It  is  now  September, 
and,  save  where  the  ground  has  been  ruthlessly 
uptorn,  everywhere  is  a  wealth  of  early  au- 
tumn bloom.  A  soothing  quiet  rests  upon  the 
scene,  bidding  us  to  retrospective  thought. 
Not  a  bit  of  stone,  of  pottery,  or  of  burned 
and  blackened  fragment  of  bone  but  stands 
out  in  the  mellow  sunshine  as  the  feature  of 
a  long-forgotten  feast.  As  I  dreamily  gaze 
upon  the  gatherings  of  half  a  day,  I  seem  to 
see  the  ancient  folk  that  once  dwelt  in  this 
neglected  spot ;  seem  to  be  a  guest  at  a  pre- 
Columbian  dinner  in  New  Jersey. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEENTH 

A  DATyS  DIGGING 

A  S  long  ago  as  November,  1679,  two 
Dutchmen,  Jasper  Bankers  and  Peter 
Sluyter,  worked  their  way  laboriously  across 
New  Jersey  from  Manhattan  Island,  and 
reached  South  River,  as  the  Delaware  was 
then  called,  at  least  by  the  Hollanders.  They 
were  all  agog  to  see  the  falls  at  the  head  of 
tide-water,  and  spent  a  miserable  night  in  a 
rickety  shanty,  which  was  cold  as  Greenland, 
except  in  the  fireplace,  and  there  they  roasted. 
All  this  was  not  calculated  to  put  them  in  ex- 
cellent humor,  and  so  the  next  day,  when  they 
stood  on  the  river-bank  and  saw  only  a  trivial 
rapid  where  they  had  expe&ed  a  second  Ni- 
agara, their  disgust  knew  no  bounds.  These 
travel-tired  Dutchmen  quickly  departed,  row- 
ing a  small  boat  down-stream,  and  growling 
whenever  the  tide  turned  and  they  had  to  row 
against  it. 

167 


1 68         A  Day's  Digging 

When  they  reached  Burlington,  they  re- 
corded of  an  island  nearly  in  front  of  the 
village,  that  it  "formerly  belonged  to  the 
Dutch  Governor,  who  had  made  it  a  pleasure 
ground  or  garden,  built  good  houses  upon  it, 
and  sowed  and  planted  it.  He  also  dyked 
and  cultivated  a  large  piece  of  meadow  or 
marsh."  The  English  held  it  at  the  time  of 
their  visit,  and  it  was  occupied  by  "some 
Quakers,"  as  the  authors  quoted  called  them. 

One  of  these  Dutch  houses,  built  in  part 
of  yellow  bricks,  and  with  a  red  tiled  roof, 
I  found  traces  of  years  ago,  and  ever  since 
have  been  poking  about  the  spot,  for  the  very 
excellent  reasons  that  it  is  a  pretty  one,  a  se- 
cluded one,  and  as  full  of  natural  history 
attractions  now  as  it  was  of  human  interest 
when  a  Dutch  beer-garden. 

Had  no  one  who  saw  the  place  in  its  palmy 
days  left  a  record  concerning  the  beer,  I 
could,  at  this  late  day,  have  given  testimony 
that  if  there  was  no  beer,  there  were  beer 
mugs,  and  schnapps  bottles,  and  wineglasses, 
for  I  have  been  digging  again  and  found  them 
all ;  and  then  the  pipes  and  pipe-stems !  I 
have  a  pile  of  over  five  hundred.  The 
Dutch  travellers  were  correft  as  to  the  place 


A  Day's  Digging          169 

having  been  a  pleasure-garden.  It  certainly 
was,  and  probably  the  very  first  on  the  Dela- 
ware River.  But  there  was  "  pleasure,"  too, 
on  the  main  shore,  for  the  men  who  referred 
to  the  island  stayed  one  night  in  Burlington, 
and,  the  next  day  being  Sunday,  attended 
Quaker  meeting,  and  wrote  afterwards, 
"  What  they  uttered  was  mostly  in  one  tone 
and  the  same  thing,  and  so  it  continued  until 
we  were  tired  out  and  went  away."  Doubt- 
less they  were  prejudiced,  and  so  nothing 
suited  them,  not  even  what  they  found  to 
drink,  for  they  said,  "  We  tasted  here,  for  the 
first  time,  peach  brandy  or  spirits,  which  was 
very  good,  but  would  have  been  better  if 
more  carefully  made."  They  did  not  like 
the  English,  evidently,  for  the  next  day  they 
went  to  Takanij  (Tacony),  a  village  of  Swedes 
and  Finns,  and  there  drank  their  fill  of  "  very 
good  beer"  brewed  by  these  people,  and  ex- 
pressed themselves  as  much  pleased  to  find 
that,  because  they  had  come  to  a  new  country, 
they  had  not  left  behind  them  their  old 
customs. 

The  house  that  once  stood  where  now 
is  but  a  reach  of  abandoned  and  wasting 
meadow  was  erected  in  1668  or  possibly 

H  IS 


170         A  Day's  Digging 

a  little  earlier.  Its  nearest  neighbor  was  across 
a  narrow  creek,  and  a  portion  of  the  old 
building  is  said  to  be  still  standing.  Armed 
with  the  few  fadts  that  are  on  record,  it  is  easy 
to  pifture  the  place  as  it  was  in  the  days  of 
the  Dutch,  and  it  was  vastly  prettier  then  than 
it  is  now.  The  public  of  to-day  are  not  inter- 
ested in  a  useless  marsh,  particularly  when 
there  is  better  ground  about  it  in  abundance, 
and  whoever  wanders  to  such  uncanny  places 
is  quite  sure  to  be  left  severely  alone.  This 
was  my  experience,  and,  being  undisturbed,  I 
enjoyed  the  more  my  resurredtive  work.  I 
could  enthuse,  without  being  laughed  at,  over 
what  to  others  was  but  meaningless  rubbish, 
and  I  found  very  much  that,  to  me,  possessed 
greater  interest  than  usual,  because  of  a  min- 
gling of  late  Indian  and  early  European  objefts. 
With  a  handful  of  glass,  porcelain,  and  amber 
beads  were  more  than  one  hundred  of  cop- 
per ;  the  former  from  Venice,  the  latter  the 
handiwork  of  a  Delaware  Indian.  With  a 
white  clay  pipe,  made  in  Holland  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  was  found  a  rude  brown 
clay  one,  made  here  in  the  river  valley. 
Mingled  with  fragments  of  blue  and  white 
Delft  plates,  bowls,  and  platters,  were  sun- 


A  Day's  Digging          171 

dried  mud  dishes  made  by  women  hereabouts 
during,  who  can  say  how  many  centuries? 
How  completely  history  and  pre-history 
here  overlapped !  We  know  pretty  much 
everything  about  Dutchmen,  but  how  much 
do  we  really  know  of  the  native  American  ? 
After  nearly  thirty  years'  digging,  he  has  been 
traced  from  the  days  of  the  great  glaciers  to 
the  beginnings  of  American  history ;  but  we 
cannot  say  how  long  a  time  that  comprises. 
The  winter  of  1892-1893  was,  so  far  as 
appearances  went,  a  return  to  glacial  times. 
Ice  was  piled  up  fifty  feet  in  height,  and 
the  water  turned  from  the  old  channel  of  the 
river.  The  cutting  of  another  one  opened 
up  new  territory  for  the  relic  hunter  when 
the  ice  was  gone  and  the  stream  had  returned 
to  its  old  bed.  Many  an  Indian  wigwam 
site  that  had  been  covered  deep  with  soil 
was  again  warmed  by  the  springtide  sun,  and 
those  were  rare  days  when,  from  the  ashes  of 
forgotten  camps,  I  raked  the  broken  weapons 
and  rude  dishes  that  the  red  men  had  dis- 
carded. It  was  reading  history  at  first  hands, 
without  other  commentary  than  your  own. 
The  ice-scored  gravel-beds  told  even  an  older 
story ;  but  no  one  day's  digging  was  so  full 


1 72         A  Day's  Digging 

of  meaning,  or  brought  me  so  closely  in  touch 
with  the  past,  as  when  I  uncovered  what 
remained  of  the  old  Dutch  trader's  house ; 
traced  the  boundaries  of  the  one-time  pleas- 
ure-garden, hearing  in  the  songs  of  birds  the 
clinking  of  glasses,  and  then,  in  fancy,  adding 
to  the  now  deserted  landscape  the  fur-laden 
canoes  of  the  Indians  who  once  gathered  here 
to  exchange  for  the  coveted  gaudy  beads  the 
skins  of  the  many  animals  which  at  that  time 
roamed  the  forests. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEENTH 

DRIFTING 

"\>TAKE  an  early  start  if  you  wish  an 
Uf*-  eventful  outing.  Why  know  the  world 
only  when  the  day  is  middle-aged  or  old? 
A  wise  German  has  said,  "  The  morning 
hour  has  gold  in  its  mouth."  For  many  a 
rod  after  leaving  the  wharf  the  river  still 
"  smoked,"  and  the  scanty  glimpses  between 
the  rolling  clouds  of  mist  spurred  the  im- 
agination. There  was  nothing  certain  be- 
yond the  gunwales.  The  pale-yellow  color 
of  the  water  near  at  hand  and  the  deep-green 
and  even  black  of  that  in  the  distance  had 
no  daytime  suggestiveness.  It  was  not  yet 
the  familiar  river  with  its  noonday  glitter 
of  blue  and  silver. 

It  is  not  strange  that  the  initial  adventure  to 
which  the  above-mentioned  conditions  natu- 
rally gave  rise  occurred  while  this  state  of  un- 
certainty continued.    Very  soon  I  ran  upon  a 
15*  »73 


174  Drifting 

snag.  To  strike  such  an  objeft  in  mid-river 
was  rather  startling.  Was  I  not  in  or  near  the 
channel  ?  Steamboats  come  puffing  and  plow- 
ing here  and  sailing  craft  pass  up  and  down, 
so  my  only  care  had  been  to  avoid  them  ;  but 
now  there  came  in  my  path  the  twisted  trunk 
of  an  old  forest  tree  and  held  me  fast.  All 
the  while  the  mist  rose  and  fell,  giving  no 
inkling  of  my  whereabouts.  In  the  dim, 
misty  light  what  a  strange  sea-monster  this 
resurrected  tree-trunk  seemed  to  be !  Its 
thick  green  coat  of  silky  threads  lay  closely 
as  the  shining  fur  of  the  otter,  a  mane  of 
eel-grass  floated  on  the  water,  the  gnarly 
growths  where  branches  once  had  been 
glistened  as  huge  eyes,  and  broken  limbs 
were  horns  that  threatened  quick  destru&ion. 
There  was  motion,  too.  Slowly  it  rose  above 
the  water  and  then  as  slowly  sunk  from  view. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  some  long-necked 
saurian  of  the  Jersey  marls  had  come  to  life  ? 
Nonsense ;  and  yet  so  real  did  it  seem  that 
I  was  ready  for  the  river-horse  to  rise 

"  from  the  waves  beneath, 
And  grin  through  the  grate  of  his  spiky  teeth.** 

With  such  an  uncanny  keeper,  I  was  held  a 


Drifting  175 

prisoner.  At  last  I  struck  it  with  an  oar  to 
beat  it  back,  and  rocked  the  frail  boat  until 
I  feared  plunging  into  the  deep  water  and 
deeper  mud  beneath.  Deep  water  ?  It  sud- 
denly occurred  to  me  to  try  its  depth,  and 
the  truth  was  plain.  I  was  far  from  the 
channel,  and  might  with  safety  have  waded 
to  the  shore.  As  usual,  I  had  rashly  jumped 
at  conclusions.  The  mouth  of  an  inflowing 
creek  was  near  at  hand,  and  this  sunken  tree, 
a  relic  of  some  forgotten  freshet,  had  been 
lying  here  in  the  mud  for  several  years. 
The  tide  lifted  and  let  fall  the  trunk,  but  the 
root-mass  was  still  strongly  embedded.  I 
knew  the  spot  of  old,  and  now,  fearing 
nothing,  was  rational  again. 

Such  sunken  trees,  however,  are  well  cal- 
culated to  alarm  the  unthinking.  It  is  said 
of  one  yet  lying  in  the  mud  of  Crosswicks 
Creek,  that  it  rose  so  quickly  once  as  to  over- 
turn a  boat.  This  is  not  improbable.  That 
occurrence,  if  true,  happened  a  century  ago, 
and  the  same  tree  has  since  badly  fright- 
ened more  than  one  old  farmer.  I  am  told 
this  of  one  of  them  who  had  anchored  his 
boat  here  one  frosty  October  morning  and 
commenced  fishing.  While  half  asleep,  or 


176  Drifting 

but  half  sober,  the  tree  slowly  raised  up  and 
tilted  the  boat  so  that  its  occupant  felt  com- 
pelled to  swim.  His  view  of  the  offending 
monster  was  much  like  my  own  fevered  vision 
of  to-day.  He  not  only  swam  ashore,  but  ran 
a  mile  over  a  soft  marsh.  To  him  the  sea- 
serpent  was  a  reality,  although  he  saw  it  in 
the  creek. 

It  is  of  interest  to  note  that  among  the 
early  settlers  of  this  region,  for  at  least  three 
generations,  the  impression  was  prevalent 
that  there  might  be  some  monster  lurking  in 
the  deep  holes  of  the  creek  or  in  the  river. 
The  last  of  the  old  hunters  and  fishermen  of 
this  region,  who  had  spent  all  his  life  in  a  boat 
or  prowling  along  shore,  was  ever  talking  of  a 
"  king  tortle"  that  for  forty  years  had  defied 
all  his  efforts  to  capture  it.  "  Mostly,  it 
only  shows  its  top  shell,  but  1  have  seen  it 
fair  and  square,  head  and  legs,  and  I  don't 
know  as  I  care  to  get  very  close,  neither." 
This  was  his  unvaried  remark  whenever  I 
broached  the  subject.  To  have  suggested  that 
it  was  a  sunken  log,  or  in  some  other  way 
tried  to  explain  the  matter,  would  only 
have  brought  about  his  ill  will.  I  once  at- 
tempted it,  very  cautiously,  but  he  effectually 


Drifting  177 

shut  me  up  by  remarking,  "  When  this  here 
creek  runs  dry  and  you  can  walk  over  its 
bottom,  you'll  larn  a  thing  or  two  that  ain't 
down  in  your  books  yet,  and  ain't  goin'  to 
be."  The  old  man  was  right.  I  do  not 
believe  in  "  king  tortles,"  but  there  certainly 
is  "  a  thing  or  two"  not  yet  in  the  books. 
Stay  !  How  big  do  our  snappers  grow  ?  Is 
the  father  of  them  all  still  hiding  in  the 
channel  of  Crosswicks  Creek  ? 

A  description  in  an  old  manuscript  journal, 
of  the  general  aspeft  of  the  country  as  seen 
from  the  river,  bears  upon  this  subjefl  of 
strange  wild  beasts  and  monsters  of  the  deep, 
as  well  as  on  that  of  sunken  trees  that  en- 
dangered passing  shallops. 

"  As  we  pass  up  the  river,"  this  observant 
writer  records,  "  we  are  so  shut  in  by  the 
great  trees  that  grow  even  to  the  edge  of  the 
water,  that  what  may  lye  in  the  interior  is 
not  to  be  known.  That  there  be  fertile 
land,  the  Indians  tell  us,  but  their  narrow 
paths  are  toilsome  to  travel  and  there  are 
none  [of  these  people]  now  that  seem  will- 
ing to  guide  us.  As  we  approached  ffarns- 
worth's  the  channel  was  often  very  close  to 
the  shore,  and  at  one  time  we  were  held  by 


178  Drifting 

the  great  trees  that  overhung  the  bank  and 
by  one  that  had  been  fallen  a  long  time  and 
was  now  lodged  in  the  water.  As  I  looked 
towards  the  shore,  I  exclaimed,  '  Here  we 
are  indeed  in  a  great  wilderness.  What 
strangeness  is  concealed  in  this  boundless 
wood  ?  what  wonder  may  at  any  time  issue 
from  it,  or  fierce  monster  not  be  lurking  in 
the  waters  beneath  us  ?'  Through  the  day 
the  cries  of  both  birds  and  beasts  were  heard, 
but  not  always.  It  was  often  so  strangely 
quiet  that  we  were  more  affedted  thereby 
than  by  the  sounds  that  at  times  issued  forth. 
At  night  there  was  great  howling,  as  we 
were  told,  of  wolves,  and  the  hooting  of 
owls,  and  often  there  plunged  into  the  stream 
wild  stags  that  swam  near  to  our  boat.  But 
greater  than  all  else,  to  our  discomfort,  were 
the  great  sunken  trunks  of  trees  that  were 
across  the  channel,  where  the  water  was  of 
no  great  depth." 

What  a  change !  and  would  that  this  old 
traveller  could  revisit  the  Delaware  to-day. 
My  boat  is  free  again  and  the  mists  are  gone. 
Through  the  trees  are  sifted  the  level  sun- 
beams. There  is  at  least  a  chance  now  to 
compare  notes.  The  forest  is  now  a  field, 


Drifting  179 

the  trackless  marsh  a  meadow ;  wild  life  is 
largely  a  thing  of  the  past ;  silence,  both  day 
and  night,  replaces  sound.  No,  not  that; 
but  only  the  minor  sounds  are  left.  There 
are  still  the  cry  of  the  fish-hawk  and  the  sweet 
song  of  the  thrush.  No  stags  now  swim  the 
river,  but  there  remain  the  mink  and  the 
musk-rat.  It  has  not  been  long  since  I  saw 
a  migration  of  meadow-mice,  and  at  night,  I 
am  sure,  many  an  animal  dares  to  breast  the 
stream,  a  mile  wide  though  it  be.  Too 
cunning  to  expose  itself  by  day,  it  risks  its 
life  at  night ;  and  how  tragic  the  result  when, 
nearly  at  the  journey's  end,  it  is  seized  by  a 
lurking  foe ;  dragged  down,  it  may  be,  by  a 
snake  or  a  turtle  ! 

The  world  is  just  as  full  of  tragedy  as  ever, 
and,  let  us  hope,  as  full  of  comedy.  In  a 
bit  of  yonder  marsh,  above  which  bends  the 
tall  wild  rice,  there  is  daily  enafted  scene 
after  scene  as  full  of  import  as  those  which 
caused  the  very  forest  to  tremble  when  the 
wolf  and  panther  quarrelled  over  the  elk  or 
deer  that  had  fallen. 

It  has  been  insisted  upon  that  a  goal-less 
journey  is  necessarily  a  waste  of  time.  If 
on  foot,  we  must  keep  forever  on  the  go ;  if 


180  Drifting 

in  a  boat,  we  must  keep  bending  to  the  oars. 
It  is  this  miserable  fallacy  that  makes  so  many 
an  out-door  man  and  woman  lose  more  than 
half  of  that  for  which  they  went  into  the 
fields.  Who  cares  if  you  did  see  a  chippy  at 
every  turn  and  flushed  a  bittern  at  the  edge 
of  the  marsh  ?  If  you  had  been  there  before 
them,  and  these  birds  did  the  walking,  you 
would  have  gone  home  the  wiser.  It  is  not 
the  mere  faft  that  there  are  birds  that  con- 
cerns us,  but  what  are  they  doing  ?  why  are 
they  doing  it  ?  This  the  town-pent  people 
are  ever  anxious  to  know,  and  the  fafts  cannot 
be  gathered  if  you  are  forever  on  the  move. 
Suppose  I  rush  across  the  river  and  back, 
what  have  I  seen  ?  The  bottom  of  the  boat. 
I  came  to  see  the  river  and  the  sky  above, 
and  if  this  is  of  no  interest  to  the  reader,  let 
him  turn  the  leaf. 

Does  every  storm  follow  the  track  of  the 
sun?  As  the  sun  rose  there  were  clouds 
in  the  east  and  south  and  a  haziness  over 
the  western  sky.  Had  I  asked  a  farmer  as 
to  the  weather  probabilities,  he  would  have 
looked  everywhere  but  due  north.  Why 
does  he  always  ignore  that  quarter  ?  There 
may  be  great  banks  of  cloud  there,  but  they 


Drifting  181 

go  for  nothing.  "  Sou-east"  and  "  sou-west" 
are  forever  rung  in  your  ears,  but  never  a  word 
of  the  north.  Sometimes  I  have  thought  it 
may  be  for  this  reason  that  about  half  the 
time  the  farmer  is  all  wrong,  and  the  heaviest 
rains  come  when  he  is  most  sure  that  the  day 
will  be  clear. 

Looking  upward,  for  the  sky  was  clear  in 
that  direction  now,  I  saw  that  there  were  birds 
so  far  above  me  that  they  appeared  as  mere 
specks.  Very  black  when  first  seen,  but  oc- 
casionally they  flashed  as  stars  seen  by  day 
from  the  bottom  of  a  well.  They  could  not 
be  followed,  except  one  that  swept  swiftly 
earthward,  and  the  spreading  tail  and  curve 
of  wings  told  me  it  was  a  fish-hawk.  What 
a  glorious  outlook  from  its  ever-changing 
point  of  view !  From  its  height,  it  could 
have  seen  the  mountains  and  the  ocean,  and 
the  long  reach  of  river  valley  as  well.  If  the 
mists  obscure  it  all,  why  should  a  bird  linger 
in  the  upper  air  ?  The  prosy  matter  of  food- 
getting  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  While  in 
camp  on  Chesapeake  Bay,  I  noticed  that  the 
fish-hawks  were  not  always  fishing,  and  often 
the  air  rang  with  their  strange  cries  while 
soaring  so  far  overhead  as  to  be  plainly  seen 
16 


1 82  Drifting 

only  with  a  field-glass.  Every  movement  sug- 
gested freedom  from  care  as  they  romped  in 
the  fields  of  space.  It  is  not  strange  that 
they  scream,  or  laugh,  shall  we  say  ?  when 
speeding  along  at  such  rate  and  in  no  danger 
of  collision.  If  I  mistake  not,  the  cry  of 
exultation  is  coincident  with  the  downward 
swoop,  and  I  thought  of  old-time  yelling 
when  dashing  down  a  snow-clad  hill-side; 
but  how  sober  was  the  work  of  dragging  the 
sled  up-hill !  The  hawks,  I  thought,  were 
silent  when  upward  bound.  If  so,  there  is 
something  akin  to  humanity  in  the  hawk 
nature. 

I  have  called  the  cry  of  the  fish-hawk  a 
"  laugh,"  but,  from  a  human  stand-point,  do 
birds  laugh  ?  It  is  extremely  doubtful,  though 
I  recall  a  pet  sparrow-hawk  that  was  given 
to  playing  tricks,  as  I  called  them,  and  the 
whole  family  believed  that  this  bird  actually 
laughed.  Muggins,  as  we  named  him,  had  a 
fancy  for  pouncing  upon  the  top  of  my  head 
and,  leaning  forward,  snapping  his  beak  in  my 
face.  Once  an  old  uncle  came  into  the  room 
and  was  treated  in  this  fashion.  Never  having 
seen  the  bird  before,  he  was  greatly  aston- 
ished, and  indignant  beyond  measure  when 


Drifting  183 

the  hawk,  being  rudely  brushed  off,  carried 
away  his  wig.  Now  the  bird  was  no  less 
astonished  than  the  man,  and  when  he  saw 
the  wig  dangling  from  his  claws  he  gave  a 
loud  cackle,  unlike  anything  we  had  ever 
heard  before,  and  which  was,  I  imagine, 
more  an  expression  of  amusement  than  of 
surprise.  I  think  this,  because  afterwards  I 
often  played  the  game  of  wig  with  him,  to 
the  bird's  delight,  and  he  always  "  laughed" 
as  he  carried  off  the  prize.  On  the  contrary, 
the  unsuccessful  attempt  to  remove  natural 
hair  elicited  no  such  expression,  but  some- 
times a  squeal  of  disgust. 

In  the  Speftator  of  October  I,  1892,  page 
444, 1  find  a  most  thoughtful  article,  entitled 
"  The  Animal  Sense  of  Humor,"  and  I  quote 
as  follows  :  "  The  power  of  laughter  is  pecu- 
liar to  man,  and  the  sense  of  humor  may  be 
said,  generally  speaking,  to  be  also  his  special 
property."  Again,  "  We  never  saw  the 
slightest  approach  to  amusement  in  one  animal 
at  the  mistakes  of  another,  though  dogs,  so  far 
as  we  can  venture  to  interpret  their  thoughts, 
do  really  feel  amusement  at  the  mistakes  of 
men."  Possibly  the  author  is  right,  but  do 
not  cats  show  a  sense  of  humor  at  the  rough- 


184  Drifting 

and-tumble  gambols  of  their  kittens  ?  Is  not 
the  sly  cuff  on  the  ear  that  sends  a  kitten 
sprawling  indicative  of  a  sense  of  fun  on  the 
part  of  tabby  ?  Our  author  says,  "  so  far  as 
we  can  venture  to  interpret  their  thoughts." 
"  Ay,  there's  the  rub."  No  one  can  tell  how 
far  it  is  safe  to  venture,  but  I  go  a  great  deal 
beyond  my  neighbors.  Our  author  con- 
cludes, "In  animals,  as  in  man,  humor  is 
the  result  of  civilization,  and  not  as  we  under- 
stand it,  a  natural  and  spontaneous  develop- 
ment." I  cannot  subscribe  to  this.  I  know 
little  of  domestic  animals,  but  have  got  the 
idea  of  an  animal's  sense  of  humor  from  wild 
life,  and  confirmed  it  by  what  I  have  seen 
of  cats  and  dogs. 

While  I  have  been  drifting,  and  using  my 
eyes  and  ears  instead  of  legs  and  arms,  as  is 
advocated,  the  clouds,  too,  have  been  creep- 
ing this  way,  and,  while  the  morning  is  yet 
fresh,  it  is  certainly  going  to  rain.  Had  I 
consulted  the  barometer,  I  would  have  known 
this;  but  then,  knowing  it,  might  I  not  have 
stayed  at  home  ?  Why  not  enjoy  part  of  a 
day  ?  That  the  rain  will  soon  be  here  does 
not  diminish  one's  pleasure,  unless  there  is  a 
fear  of  getting  wet,  and  this  is  all  too  com- 


Drifting  185 

mon.     I  hope  that  it  does  not  mean  that  you 
have  but  one  suit  of  clothes. 

The  approaching  rain,  the  increasing 
cloudiness,  the  shut-in  appearance,  made  the 
river  exceedingly  attractive.  With  the  down- 
dropping  clouds  dropped  down  the  birds, 
and  the  swallows  now  skimmed  the  water  as 
they  had  been  skimming  the  sky.  The  fish- 
hawks  departed,  but  a  host  of  land-birds 
crossed  the  stream,  as  if  comparing  the  shelter 
afforded  by  the  cedars  on  one  side  and  pines 
on  the  other.  These  birds  chattered  as  they 
flew  by,  and  turned  their  heads  up-  and  down- 
stream, as  if  curious  as  to  all  that  might  be 
going  on.  Suddenly  the  water  ceased  to  be 
rippled,  and  far  down-stream  a  cloud  appeared 
to  have  reached  the  river.  It  was  the  rain. 
It  seemed  to  march  very  slowly,  and  every 
drop  made  a  dimple  on  the  river's  breast. 
Then  I  could  hear  the  on-coming  host,  the 
sound  having  a  distinft  bell-like  tinkle  as  each 
drop  touched  the  surface  and  disappeared. 
A  curious  effeft,  too,  was  produced  by  the 
wind  or  the  varying  density  of  the  cloud 
above,  in  that  the  drops  were  very  near  to- 
gether where  I  happened  to  be,  and  much 
farther  apart  and  larger  some  distance  beyond 
1 6* 


1 86  Drifting 

the  boat.  I  could  of  course  make  no  meas- 
urements, but  appearances  suggested  that  in 
the  middle  of  the  river  the  drops  were  less 
numerous  in  the  proportion  of  one  to  live. 
Does  it  usually  rain  harder  over  land  than 
over  water  ?  Heretofore  I  had  seen  the  rain 
upon  the  river  while  on  shore,  and  was  now 
very  glad  to  have  been  caught  adrift,  so  as  to 
observe  it  from  a  new  point  of  view.  It 
was  a  beautiful  sight,  well  worth  the  thorough 
wetting  that  I  got  and  which  drove  me  home 
soon  after  with  pleasant  thoughts  of  my  goal- 
less journey. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEENTH 

FOOTPRINfS 


the  camp-fire  was  smoking,  for 
the  wood  was  green  and  I  was  willing 
that  my  companion  should  worry  over  it,  I 
strolled  up  the  long,  sandy  beach  with  no  par- 
ticular object  in  mind  and  quite  ready  to  meet 
and  parley  with  any  creature  that  I  overtook. 
I  saw  only  evidences  of  what  had  been  there, 
or  what  I  supposed  had  been.  There  were 
tracks  that  I  took  to  be  those  of  herons,  and 
others  that  suggested  a  raccoon  in  search  of 
crayfish.  Here  and  there  a  mouse  had  hur- 
ried by.  What  lively  times  had  been  kept  up 
at  low  tide  within  sight  of  the  tent  door  !  and 
yet  we  knew  nothing  of  it.  But  these  tracks 
were  not  well  defined,  and  therefore  why 
not  misinterpreted  ?  I  have  not  suggested  all 
the  possibilities  of  the  case  -  Here  my 
meditations  were  checked  by  the  call  to 
breakfast,  but  I  took  up  the  subject  again  as  I 

187 


1 88  Footprints 

walked  alone  in  the  woods,  for  I  was  but 
the  companion  of  a  worker,  not  one  myself. 
It  occurred  to  me  that  when  we  read  of 
hunters,  or  perhaps  have  followed  a  trapper 
in  his  rounds,  we  have  been  led  to  think  that 
footprints  are  animal  autography  that  the 
initiated  can  read  without  hesitation.  To 
distinguish  the  track  of  a  rabbit  from  that  of 
a  raccoon  is  readily  done,  and  we  can  go 
much  further,  and  determine  whether  the 
animal  was  walking  or  running,  made  a  leap 
here  or  squatted  there ;  but  can  we  go  to  any 
length,  and  decipher  every  impress  an  animal 
may  have  made  in  passing  over  the  sand  or 
mud  ?  I  think  not.  I  have  seen  a  twig  sent 
spinning  a  long  distance  up  the  beach  at  low 
tide,  making  a  line  of  equidistant  marks  that 
were  extremely  life-like  in  appearance.  A 
cloud  of  dead  leaves  have  so  dotted  an  ex- 
panse of  mud  that  a  gunner  insisted  there 
had  been  a  flock  of  plover  there  a  few  mo- 
ments before  he  arrived.  All  depends,  or 
very  much  does,  on  the  condition  of  the  sur- 
face marked.  If  very  soft  and  yielding,  the 
plainest  bird-tracks  may  be  distorted,  and  a 
mere  dot,  on  the  other  hand,  may  have  its 
outline  so  broken  as  to  appear  as  though  made 


Footprints  189 

by  a  bird  or  mammal.  Still,  tracks  are  a 
safe  guide  in  the  long  run,  and,  whether 
our  opinion  as  to  them  be  correct  or  not,  the 
rambler  finds  something  worth  seeing,  and 
he  goes  on  anything  but  a  wild-goose  chase 
who  sometimes  finds  himself  mistaken.  It 
is  well  to  check  our  confidence  occasionally 
and  realize  the  limits  of  our  power. 

Opportunity  afforded  while  in  camp,  and 
I  made  a  short  study  of  footprints.  With 
a  field-glass  I  noted  many  birds,  and  then 
going  to  the  spot,  examined  the  impressions 
their  feet  had  made.  A  night-heron  did  not 
come  down  flatly  upon  its  feet  with  outspread 
toes,  and  so  the  tracks  were  quite  different 
from  the  impressions  made  when  the  bird 
walked.  Crows,  I  noticed,  both  hopped 
and  walked,  and  the  marks  were  very  dif- 
ferent, the  former  being  broad  and  ill-defined 
in  comparison  with  the  traces  of  the  same 
bird's  stately  tread.  Had  the  bird  not  been 
seen,  any  one  would  have  supposed  two  creat- 
ures had  been  keeping  close  company,  or  that 
some  one  individual  had  passed  by  in  the 
very  path  of  another.  The  purple  grakle 
and  red-winged  blackbird  made  tracks  too 
much  alike  to  be  distinguished,  yet  these 


190  Footprints 

birds  have  not  the  same  size  or  shape  of  foot. 
A  water-snake  came  up  over  the  mud  and 
left  a  line  of  marks  upon  the  sand  that  could 
not  be  recognized  as  that  of  any  animal,  ex- 
cept it  might  be  a  faint  resemblance  to  the  trail 
of  a  mussel.  I  chased  a  dozen  crayfish  over 
a  mud  flat,  and  their  backward  and  sidewise 
leapings  caused  an  old  gunner  to  say  there 
had  been  plover  about.  A  blue-winged  teal 
made  a  long  double  line  of  dents  in  the  sand 
before  it  rose  clear  of  the  beach,  and  these 
were  very  like  many  a  footprint  I  had  pre- 
viously seen.  What,  then,  must  we  think  of 
the  fossil  footprints  of  which  so  much  has 
been  written  ?  As  different  species,  a  long 
series  of  these  impressions  in  the  rock  have 
been  described  and  given  high-sounding  titles. 
I  am  not  entitled  to  an  opinion,  but  have 
doubts,  nevertheless,  of  the  wisdom  of  con- 
sidering every  slightly  different  form  as  made 
by  a  different  creature.  I  have  given  my 
reasons,  and  will  only  add  another  instance, 
one  of  greater  significance  than  all  as  bear- 
ing upon  the  question.  I  startled  a  slum- 
bering jumping-mouse  last  summer  and  it 
bounded  across  the  smooth  sand  bared  by  the 
outgoing  tide.  Its  track  then  was  one  made 


Footprints  191 

by  its  body  rather  than  the  extremities,  and 
a  curious  dent  in  the  river-shore's  smooth 
surface  it  was  ;  but  before  taking  again  to  the 
woods  it  walked  in  its  peculiar  way,  and  the 
little  footprints  were  quite  distinct  and  un- 
mistakably those  of  a  small  mammal.  Had 
the  two  sets  of  markings  been  preserved  in 
a  slab  of  sandstone,  no  ichnologist  would 
have  recognized  the  truth,  but  probably  would 
have  said,  "  Here  is  a  case  where  some  leap- 
ing creature  has  overtaken  a  small  rodent  and 
devoured  it." 

Difficult  as  fossil  footprints  may  be  to  de- 
cipher, they  call  up  with  wonderful  distinct- 
ness the  long  ago  of  other  geologic  ages.  It 
is  hard  to  realize  that  the  stone  of  which  our 
houses  are  built  once  formed  the  tide-washed 
shore  of  a  primeval  river  or  the  bed  of  a  lake 
or  ocean  gone  long  before  man  came  upon 
the  scene. 

But  the  footprints  of  to-day  concern  me 
more.  Looking  over  the  side  of  the  boat,  I 
saw  several  mussels  moving  slowly  along  and 
making  a  deep,  crooked  groove  in  the  ripple- 
marked  sand,  "  streaking  the  ground  with 
sinuous  trace,"  as  Milton  puts  it ;  and  the 
school  of  blunt-headed  minnows  made  little 


192  Footprints 

dents  in  the  sand  wherever  the  water  was  shal- 
low, when  they  turned  suddenly  and  darted 
off-shore.  This  sand  seemed  very  unstable, 
and  a  little  agitation  of  the  water  caused 
many  a  mark  to  be  wiped  out ;  and  yet  we 
find  great  slabs  of  ripple-marked  and  foot- 
marked  sandstone.  I  picked  up  such  a  piece 
not  long  ago  on  which  were  rain-drop  marks. 
This  is  the  story  of  a  million  years  ago ;  but 
who  ever  found  Indian  moccasin-marks  not 
two  centuries  old?  The  footprints  that 
could  tell  us  many  a  wonderful  story  are  all 
gone  and  the  tale  of  a  rain-drop  remains. 
This  is  a  bit  aggravating.  Here  where  we 
have  pitched  our  camp,  or  very  near  it,  was 
a  Swedish  village  in  1650  and  later,  and  for 
two  days  I  have  been  hunting  for  evidence 
of  the  faft, — some  bit  of  broken  crockery, 
rusty  nail,  glass,  pewter  spoon,  anything, — 
but  in  vain.  History  records  the  village,  and 
corredlly,  without  a  doubt,  but  there  are  no 
footprints  here,  nor  other  trace  to  show  that 
a  white  man  ever  saw  the  place  until  our  tent 
was  pitched  upon  the  beach. 

Towards  evening  I  had  occasion  to  renew 
my  youth, — in  other  words,  "run  on  an 
errand,"  as  my  mother  put  it, — and  going  half 


Footprints  193 

a  mile  through  the  woods,  I  came  to  a  nar- 
row but  well-worn  path.  This  was  so  akin 
to  my  footprint  thoughts  of  the  morning  that  I 
gladly  followed  it  instead  of  making  a  short 
cut.  It  was  fortunate,  for  the  path  led  di- 
reftly  to  where  I  wished  to  go,  and  our  theo- 
retical geography,  as  usual,  was  terribly  out 
of  joint.  As  it  was,  on  the  edge  of  an  old 
village  I  found  a  very  old  man  in  a  very  old 
house.  His  memory  as  to  the  earlier  half  of 
the  century  was  excellent,  and  he  gave  me 
the  desired  information  and  more.  I  spoke 
of  the  path  through  the  woods,  and  he 
chuckled  to  himself. 

"  Through  the  woodses,  eh  ?  Well,  when 
I  made  the  path,  goin'  and  comin'  through 
the  brush  that  wasn't  shoulder-high,  there  was 
no  trees  then.  That  was  more'n  forty  years 
ago." 

"  No,  John,  'twa'n't,"  piped  a  weak  voice 
from  the  interior  of  the  little  cottage ; 
«« 'twaVt  mor'n " 

"  Laws,  man,  don't  mind  her.  She  dis- 
putes the  almanac,  and  every  winter  gets  in 
New  Year's  ahead  of  Christmas." 

I  did  not  stop  to  argue  the  matter,  but 
hurried  campward,  glad  that,  if  I  could  find 
i  n  17 


194  Footprints 

no  footprints  of  human  interest  and  historic, 
I  at  least  had  followed  a  path  made  forty 
years  ago, — a  path  that  had  been  worn  among 
bushes  and  now  led  through  a  forest.  It  was 
indeed  suggestive.  By  the  camp-lire  that 
night  I  vowed  to  plant  a  forest  where  now 
there  was  but  a  thicket,  and  in  my  dreams 
I  walked  through  a  noble  wood. 

Think  how  much  might  be  done  to  beau- 
tify the  world,  and  how  little  is  accom- 
plished. 


CHAPTER  SIXTEENTH 

BEES  AND  BUCKWHEAT 

*  |  ''HE  great  storm  of  yesterday  cleared  the 
•*•  air  as  well  as  cleaned  the  beaches,  and 
the  river  was  fresh  and  sparkling  as  though 
the  tempest  had  added  new  life,  so  that  the 
listless  midsummery  water  was  now  as  cham- 
pagne, "  with  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the 
brim."  The  air  was  heavy  with  sweetness 
and  with  song,  the  fields  and  meadows  painted 
as  the  rose.  The  buckwheat  was  in  bloom, 
and  a  million  bees  were  humming.  The 
pasture  was  gay  with  pink  gerardia,  or  re- 
flefted  the  summer  sky  where  the  day-flower 
blossomed.  There  was  no  commingling  of 
these  late  flowers.  Each  had  its  own  acre, 
exercised  squatter  sovereignty,  and  allowed 
no  trespassing.  The  only  evidence  of  man's 
interference,  except  the  buckwheat-field,  was 
a  dilapidated  worm-fence,  and  this  is  one  of 
several  instances  where  beauty  increases  hand 

'95 


196       Bees  and  Buckwheat 

in  hand  with  decay.  The  older  such  a  fence, 
the  better ;  when  merely  a  support  for  Vir- 
ginia creeper  or  the  rank  trumpet-vine,  it  is 
worthy  the  rambler's  regard.  Wild  life  long 
ago  learned  what  a  safe  snug-harbor  such 
ruined  fences  offer.  It  puzzles  even  a  mink 
to  thread  their  mazes,  and  the  shy  rabbit  that 
has  its  "  form"  in  a  brier-hidden  hollow  of 
the  crooked  line  feels  that  it  is  safe. 

There  are  traces  of  these  old  fences  of 
which  no  record  remains,  placed  perhaps  by 
the  very  earliest  settler  in  a  tracl:  that  he  had 
cleared  and  which  has  since  gone  back  to  an 
almost  primitive  state.  In  an  old  woodland 
I  once  traced  a  fence  by  the  long  line  of  cy- 
pripediums  in  bloom,  which  were  thriving  in 
the  mould  of  decayed  fence-rails,  a  pretty  if 
not  permanent  monument  to  departed  worth. 

A  word  more  of  these  old  fences  in  winter. 
When  the  snow  beats  across  the  field,  it  stops 
here  and  gracefully  curves  above  it,  arching 
the  rails  and  vines  until  all  is  hidden,  unless 
it  be  some  lonely  projecting  stake,  by  which 
alone  it  communicates  with  the  outside  world. 
I  rashly  attempted  once  to  go  across-lots  over 
a  new  country,  and  made  a  discovery.  The 
snow-bound  fence  was  but  a  drift,  I  thought, 


Bees  and  Buckwheat       197 

but  it  proved  to  be  far  different.  The  thick 
mat  of  hardy  growths  had  kept  back  the  snow, 
which  was  but  a  roof  and  did  not  wholly  ex- 
clude the  light.  For  some  distance  I  could 
dimly  make  out  the  various  growths,  and  each 
little  cedar  stood  up  as  a  sentinel.  A  loud 
word  sounded  and  resounded  as  if  I  had  spo- 
ken in  an  empty  room  or  shouted  in  a  long 
tunnel.  The  coldest  day  in  the  year  could 
not  inconvenience  any  creature  that  took 
shelter  here,  and  I  found  later  that  life,  both 
furred  and  feathered,  knew  the  old  fence  far 
better  than  I  did. 

But  this  is  the  last  day  but  one  of  August, 
and  so  nominally  the  end  of  summer.  Only 
nominally,  for  these  flowery  meadows  and 
sweet-scented  fields  contradict  the  almanac. 
This  quiet  nook  in  the  Delaware  meadows 
offers  no  intimation  of  autumn  until  October, 
and  late  in  the  month  at  that.  The  bees  and 
buckwheat  will  see  to  this,  or  seem  to,  which 
is  just  as  much  to  the  purpose.  To-day  along 
the  old  worm-fence  are  many  kingbirds,  and, 
although  mute,  they  are  not  moping.  There 
is  too  much  inseft  life  astir  for  that.  With 
them  are  orioles  and  bluebirds,  the  whole 
making  a  loose  flock  of  perhaps  a  hundred 
17* 


198       Bees  and  Buckwheat 

birds.  The  bluebirds  are  singing,  but  in  a 
half-hearted,  melancholy  way,  reminding  me 
of  an  old  man  who  spent  his  time  when  over 
ninety  in  humming  "  Auld  Lang  Syne."  Be- 
fore the  buckwheat  has  lost  its  freshness  these 
birds  will  all  be  gone,  but  at  what  time  the 
bluebirds  part  company  with  the  others  I  do 
not  know.  They  certainly  do  not  regularly 
migrate,  as  do  the  others.  There  was  a  colony 
of  them  that  lived  for  years  in  and  about  my 
barn,  and  one  was  as  sure  to  see  them  in 
January  as  in  June.  No  English  sparrows 
could  have  been  more  permanently  fixed. 

When  the  buckwheat  is  ripe  and  the  fields 
and  meadows  are  brown,  there  will  be  other 
birds  to  take  their  place.  Tree-sparrows  from 
Canada  and  white-throats  from  New  England 
will  make  these  same  fields  merry  with  music, 
and  the  tangle  about  the  old  fence  will  ring 
with  gladness.  But  it  is  August  still,  and  why 
anticipate  ?  High  overhead  there  are  black 
specks  in  the  air,  and  we  can  mark  their  course, 
as  they  pass,  by  the  bell-like  chink-chink  that 
comes  floating  earthward.  It  is  one  of  the 
sounds  that  recall  the  past  rather  than  refer 
to  the  present.  The  reed-bird  of  to-day  was 
a  bobolink  last  May.  His  roundelay  that  told 


Bees  and  Buckwheat       199 

then  of  a  long  summer  to  come  is  now  but  a 
single  note  of  regret  that  the  promised  summer 
is  a  thing  of  the  past.  It  is  the  Alpha  and 
Omega  of  the  year's  song-tide.  Not  that  we 
have  no  other  songs  when  the  reed-bird  has 
flown  to  the  Carolina  rice-fields.  While  I 
write,  a  song-sparrow  is  reciting  reminis- 
cences of  last  May,  and  there  will  be  ringing 
rounds  of  bird-rejoicing  from  November  to 
April.  Still,  the  initial  thought  holds  good  : 
bobolink  in  May,  and  only  a  reed-bird  in 
August ;  the  beginning  and  the  end ;  the  her- 
ald of  Summer's  birth  and  her  chief  mourner ; 
Alpha  and  Omega. 

Where  the  brook  that  drains  the  meadow 
finds  its  way,  the  little  rail-birds  have  con- 
gregated. Many  spent  their  summer  along 
the  Musketaquid,  where  Thoreau  spent  his 
best  days,  but  they  bring  no  message  from 
New  England.  They  very  seldom  speak 
above  a  whisper.  Not  so  the  king-rail.  He 
chatters  as  he  threads  the  marsh  and  dodges 
the  great  blue  harrier  that  sweeps  above  the 
cat-tail  grasses  and  has  to  be  content  with  a 
sparrow  or  a  mouse. 

These  late  August  days  are  too  often  over- 
full, and  one  sees  and  hears  too  much, — so 


2oo       Bees  and  Buckwheat 

very  much  that  it  is  hard  to  give  proper  heed 
to  any  one  of  the  many  sights  and  sounds. 
But  how  much  harder  to  turn  your  back  upon 
it !  All  too  soon  the  sun  sinks  into  the  golden 
clouds  of  the  western  sky. 

That  was  a  happy  day  when  the  buckwheat 
was  threshed  in  the  field,  on  a  cool,  clear, 
crisp  O&ober  morning.  The  thumping  of 
the  flails  on  the  temporary  floor  put  the  world 
in  good  humor.  No  bird  within  hearing  but 
sang  to  its  time-keeping.  Even  the  crows 
cawed  more  methodically,  and  squirrels 
barked  at  the  same  instant  that  the  flail  sent 
a  shower  of  brown  kernels  dancing  in  the 
air.  The  quails  came  near,  as  if  impatient 
for  the  grains  eyes  less  sharp  than  theirs  would 
fail  to  find.  It  was  something  at  such  a  time 
to  lie  in  the  gathering  heap  of  straw  and  join 
in  the  work  so  far  as  to  look  on.  That  is  a 
boy's  privilege  which  we  seldom  are  anxious 
to  outgrow.  A  nooning  at  such  a  time  meant 
a  fire  to  warm  the  dinner,  and  the  scanty  time 
allowed  was  none  too  short  for  the  threshers 
to  indulge  in  weather  prognostications.  This 
is  as  much  a  habit  as  eating,  and  to  forego  it 
would  be  as  unnatural  as  to  forego  the  taking 
of  food.  As  the  threshers  ate,  they  scanned 


Bees  and  Buckwheat       201 

the  surroundings,  and  not  a  tree,  bush,  or 
wilted  weed  but  was  held  to  bear  evidence 
that  the  coining  winter  would  be  "  open"  or 
"  hard,"  as  the  oldest  man  present  saw  fit  to 
predict.  No  one  disputed  him,  and  no  one 
remembered  a  week  later  what  he  had  said, 
so  the  old  man's  reputation  was  safe. 

The  buckwheat  threshed,  the  rest  is  all  a 
matter  of  plain  prose.  Stay  !  In  the  coming 
Indian  summer  there  was  always  a  bee-hunt. 
The  old  man  whom  we  saw  in  the  buckwheat- 
field  in  Oftober  was  our  dependence  for  wild 
honey,  which  we  fancied  was  better  than  that 
from  the  hives.  He  always  went  alone, 
carrying  a  wooden  pail  and  a  long,  slender 
oaken  staff.  How  he  found  the  bee-trees  so 
readily  was  a  question  much  discussed.  "  He 
smells  it,"  some  one  suggested ;  "  He  hears 
'em  a-buzzin',"  others  remarked.  Knowing 
when  he  was  going,  I  once  followed  on  the 
sly  and  solved  the  mystery.  He  went  with- 
out hesitation  or  turning  of  the  head  to  a 
hollow  beech,  and  straightway  commenced 
operations.  I  did  not  stay  to  witness  this,  but 
came  away  recalling  many  a  Sunday  after- 
noon's stroll  with  him  in  these  same  woods. 
What  he  had  seen  in  August  he  had  remem- 


2O2       Bees  and  Buckwheat 

bered  in  December,  and,  wise  man  that  he 
was,  said  nothing  meanwhile.  Why,  indeed, 
should  he  throw  aside  the  opportunity  to  pose 
as  one  having  superior  knowledge,  when 
others  were  so  persistent  in  asserting  it  of 
him  ?  There  is  that  much  vanity  in  all  men. 

But  a  year  later  his  superior  knowledge 
failed  him.  I  had  found  the  same  tree  in  my 
solitary  rambles,  and  was  there  ahead  of  him. 
Still,  I  never  enjoyed  my  triumph.  I  felt 
very  far  from  complimented,  when  he  re- 
marked, as  an  excuse  for  his  failure,  that  "  a 
skunk  had  been  at  the  only  bee-tree  in  the 
woods.  He  saw  signs  of  the  varmint  all 
about;"  and  when  he  said  this  he  looked 
direftly  at  me,  with  his  nose  in  the  air. 

It  is  winter  now,  and  when  in  the  early 
morning  I  find  cakes  and  honey  upon  the 
breakfast-table,  excellent  as  they  are  in  their 
way,  they  are  the  better  that  they  call  up  the 
wide  landscape  of  those  latter  August  days 
and  of  frosty  Oftober,  for  I  see  less  of  the 
morning  meal  before  me  than  of  bees  and 
buckwheat. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEENTH 

DEAD  LEASES 

T  HAVE  often  .wondered  why  the  Indians 
•*•  did  not  call  November  the  month  of 
dead  leaves.  The  out-of-town  world  is  full 
of  them  now.  They  replace  the  daisies  and 
dandelions  in  the  open  fields,  the  violets  and 
azaleas  in  the  shady  woods.  They  are  a  promi- 
nent feature  of  the  village  street.  Many  will 
cling  to  the  trees  the  winter  long,  but  mil- 
lions are  scattered  over  the  ground.  Even 
on  the  river  I  find  them  floating,  borne  slowly 
by  the  tide  or  hurrying  across  the  rippled 
surface,  chased  by  the  passing  breeze. 

The  pleasure — common  to  us  all — we  take 
in  crushing  them  beneath  our  feet  savors  of 
heartlessness.  Why  should  we  not  recall 
their  kindness  when,  as  bright-green  leaves, 
each  cast  its  mite  of  grateful  shade,  so  dear 
to  the  rambler,  and  now,  when  they  have 
fallen,  let  them  rest  in  peace  ?  We  should 

203 


2O4  Dead  Leaves 

not  be  ugly  and  revengeful  merely  because  it 
is  winter.  There  is  nothing  to  fret  us  in 
this  change  from  shade  to  sunshine,  from 
green  leaves  to  brown.  The  world  is  not 
dead  because  of  it.  While  the  sun  looks 
down  upon  the  woods  to-day  there  arises  a 
sweet  odor,  pleasant  as  the  breath  of  roses. 
The  world  dead,  indeed  !  What  more  vig- 
orous and  full  of  life  than  the  mosses  cover- 
ing the  rich  wood-mould  ?  Before  me,  too, 
lies  a  long-fallen  tree  cloaked  in  moss  greener 
than  the  summer  pastures.  Not  the  sea  alone 
possesses  transforming  magic;  there  is  also  "a 
wood-change  into  something  rich  and  strange." 
Never  does  the  thought  of  death  and  decay 
centre  about  such  a  sight.  The  chickadee 
drops  from  the  bushes  above,  looks  the  moss- 
clad  log  over  carefully,  and,  when  again  poised 
on  an  overhanging  branch,  loudly  lisps  its 
praises.  What  if  it  is  winter  when  you  wit- 
ness such  things?  One  swallow  may  not 
make  a  summer,  but  a  single  chickadee  will 
draw  the  sting  from  any  winter  morning. 

I  never  sit  by  the  clustered  dead  leaves  and 
listen  to  their  faint  rustling  as  the  wind  moves 
among  them  but  I  fancy  they  are  whispering 
of  the  days  gone  by.  What  of  the  vanished 


Dead  Leaves  205 

springtide,  when  they  first  timidly  looked 
forth  ?  They  greeted  the  returning  birds,  the 
whole  merry  host  of  north-bound  warblers, 
and  what  startling  fa&s  of  the  bird-world 
they  might  reveal !  There  is  no  eye-witness 
equal  to  the  leaf,  and  with  them  lives  and 
dies  many  a  secret  that  even  the  most  patient 
ornithologist  can  never  gain.  How  much 
they  overhear  of  what  the  birds  are  saying ! 
to  how  much  entrancing  music  they  listen 
that  falls  not  upon  men's  ears  !  What  a  view 
of  the  busy  world  above  us  has  the  fluttering 
leaf  that  crowns  the  tall  tree's  topmost  twig ! 
Whether  in  storm  or  sunshine,  veiled  in 
clouds  or  beneath  a  starlit  sky,  whatsoever 
happens,  there  is  the  on-looking  leaf,  a  nat- 
uralist worth  knowing  could  we  but  learn  its 
language. 

A  word  here  as  to  the  individuality  of  living 
leaves.  Few  persons  are  so  blind  as  to  have 
never  noticed  how  leaves  differ.  Of  every 
size  and  shape  and  density,  they  have  varied 
experiences,  if  not  different  functions,  and 
their  effect  upon  the  rambler  in  his  wander- 
ings is  by  no  means  always  the  same.  At 
high  noon,  when  the  midsummer  sun  strives 
to  parch  the  world,  let  the  rambler  stand 
18 


206  Dead  Leaves 

first  beneath  an  old  oak  and  then  pass  to  the 
quivering  aspen,  or  pause  in  the  shade  of  a 
way-side  locust  and  then  tarry  beneath  the 
cedar,  at  whose  roots  the  sunshine  never 
comes.  It  needs  but  to  do  this  to  realize 
that  there  are  leaves  and  leaves :  those  that 
truly  shelter  and  those  that  tease  you  by  their 
fitfulness. 

It  is  winter  now  and  the  leaves  are  dead ; 
but,  although  blighted,  they  have  not  lost 
their  beauty.  Heaped  in  the  by-paths  of 
this  ancient  wood,  they  are  closely  associated 
with  the  pranks  of  many  birds,  and  for  this 
alone  should  be  lovingly  regarded.  Even  now 
I  hear  an  overstaying  chewink — for  this  is  a 
warm  wood  the  winter  long — tossing  them 
in  little  clouds  about  him  as  he  searches  for 
the  abundant  insefts  that  vainly  seek  shelter 
where  they  have  fallen.  The  birds  seem  to 
seek  fun  as  well  as  food  among  the  leaves.  I 
have  often  watched  them  literally  dive  from 
the  overhanging  bushes  into  a  heap  of  leaves, 
and  then  with  a  flirt  of  the  wings  send  dozens 
flying  into  the  air.  It  is  hard  to  imagine  any 
other  purpose  than  pure  sport.  When,  as 
often  happens,  two  or  three  follow  their 
leader,  I  always  think  of  a  string  of  boys  diving 


Dead  Leaves  207 

or  playing  leap-frog.  "  Coincidence,"  cries 
old  Prosy,  with  a  wise  shake  of  his  head. 
Perhaps ;  but  I  think  old  Prosy  is  a  fool. 

The  strange,  retiring  winter  wren  is  equally 
a  lover  of  dead  leaves.  He  plays  with  them 
in  a  less  boisterous  manner,  but  none  the  less 
delights  in  tossing  them  to  and  fro.  It  is  at 
such  a  time  that  a  few  notes  of  his  marvellous 
summer  song  occasionally  escape  him.  The 
white-throated  sparrows  fairly  dance  among 
or  upon  the  heaped-up  leaves,  and  play  bo- 
peep  with  the  clouds  of  them  they  send 
aloft;  and  in  February  the  foxie  sparrows 
play  the  same  pranks.  Squirrels  and  mice 
are  equally  at  home,  and  abandon  all  prudence 
when  they  frolic  among  the  windrows.  The 
more  clatter  and  cackle,  the  better  they  are 
pleased.  When  freed  from  the  restraint  of 
fear,  wild  life  is  fun-loving  to  the  very  brim. 

Dead  leaves  are  never  deserted  unless  the 
weather  is  extremely  cold  or  a  storm  has 
prevailed  until  they  are  a  sodden  mat.  Even 
from  such  a  wetting  they  soon  recover  and 
respond  to  the  passing  breeze's  gentlest  touch. 
Dead  leaves  are  the  matured  fruit  of  summer, 
and  what  an  important  part  they  really  play 
as  the  year  closes !  They  are  not  now  of  the 


208  Dead  Leaves 

air,  airy,  but  of  the  earth,  earthy.  Dead,  it 
is  true,  yet  living.  Passive,  yet  how  aftive  ! 
They  are  whispering  good  cheer  now  to  the 
sleeping  buds  that  await  the  coming  of  a  new 
year,  and  faithfully  guard  them  when  the 
storm  rages.  For  such  deeds  we  owe  them 
our  kindliest  thoughts. 

In  the  golden  sunshine  of  this  dreamy  day 
the  leaves  have  yet  another  visitor  that  makes 
merry  with  them.  The  little  whirlwind, 
without  a  herald,  springs  laughingly  upon 
them,  even  when  the  profoundest  quiet  reigns 
throughout  the  wood.  Touched  by  this 
fairy's  wand,  the  leaves  rise  in  a  whirling 
pillar  and  dance  down  the  narrow  path  into 
some  even  more  secluded  nook.  Dead  leaves, 
indeed  !  Never  did  the  wildest  madcap  of  a 
courting  bird  play  livelier  pranks. 

Time  was  when  I  would  have  searched 
the  woods  for  winter-green  and  worn  it  gayly. 
I  am  content  to-day  to  carry  a  withered  leaf. 


INDEX 

A.  Allium,  77.       / 

Amelanc  hier,  140. 
Andromeda  ,  57. 
Ants,  14,  36. 
Arbutus  ,  51,  57,  62. 
Arrow-point^  156. 
Azalea,  141. 


B.  Iferfr,  54. 
Beaver,  66. 
5^c£),  43. 
Bircby  54. 
Bittern,  73,  180. 

/^ir,  42. 
Bittersweet,  142. 
Blackbird,  32,  41,  67,  75,  189. 
Blueberry,  64. 

Bluebird,  1  8,  67,  143,  197. 
Boneset,  155. 
Butterflies,  20,  156. 
Buzzards,  67. 

C.  Cardinal  bird,  23,  59,  75,  80,  87,  III,  144. 
Cat-bird,  32,  59,  87,  137,  146. 
Caterpillar,  133. 

o  1  8*  209 


2io  Index 

Cat  Unite,  150,  158. 
Cat-  tail,  42. 
Cedar,  64. 
Celastrus,  142. 
Centaury,  155. 
Centipede,  57. 
Chat,  32,  83. 
Cherry,  wild,  43. 
Cheivink,  59,  80,  206. 
Chickadee,  204. 
Chimney  -swift,  20. 

Cfcy,  35- 

Clethra,  141. 

Cougars,  65. 

Coiv-bird,  93. 

Crayfish,  187,  190. 

Crocus,  145. 

Crow,  n,  32,  47,  76,  86,  189,  200. 

Cy/*r«5,  77. 

D.  Day-flower,  195. 

D«?r,  54,  179. 
Deer-berry,  141. 
Deutzia,  141. 
Diver,  29. 
Dodder,  1  1  6,  156. 
Dove,  24. 
Dragon-fly,  156. 
Ducks,  wild,  86  j  wood-,  56. 


24. 
54. 


Index  211 

Elk,  179- 
Elm,  43. 

F.  '«  False-teeth,"  141. 

Finch,  indigo,  72 ;  purple,  59  j  thistle,  33. 
Fly-catcher,  15,  32,  144. 
Frog?,  58,  67. 

G.  Galium,  77. 
Gerardia,  195. 
Golden-club,  56. 
Grwtf*,  32,  75,  145,  189. 
Grosbeak,  rose-breasted,  59. 
Gulls,  76. 

Gum-tree,  66. 

H.  Harrier,  199. 

17- 
24. 

./?*£-,  26,  32,  179,  181. 

sparroiv-,  182. 

Heron,  blue,  42$  green,  25;   night-,  189. 
Herons,  41,  67,  187. 
Herring,  67. 
fl/Vfcry,  17,  44. 
#b//y,  51. 
Honeysuckle,  136. 
Humming-bird,  136. 
Hy/tf,  58. 

I*  Indian  grass,  64. 

«//«,  148,  IS*,  157,  l6°- 


212  Index 

Ink-berry,  52. 
Iris,  40. 
Iron-weed,  155. 

J.  Jasper,  151. 

Jerboa,  59. 

K.  Kill-deer  plover,  32,  67,  77,  95. 

Kingbird,  41,  197. 
Kinglet,  65,  82. 
King-rail,  42,  199. 

L.  Leucothoe,  141. 

Lindera,  140. 
Liquidambar,  54. 
',67. 
41,  134- 


M.          Magnolia^  66. 

Maple,  28,  52,  72. 

Martin,  31,  143. 

-MMf  53 ,  156,  179. 

Minnow,  mud-,  39. 

Minnows,  126,  191. 

Mistletoe,  28,  66. 

Mocking-bird,  32. 

Mow,  c/«£-,  57  j  reindeer,  54,  62. 

Mouse,  meadow-,  17,  42,  156,  179. 

white-footed,  59. 
M«j*-r<rt,  29,  53,  156,  179. 
Mussel,  191. 


Index  213 


O.  Oak,  10,  21,  44,  64,  138. 

ivillovj-,  53. 
Obsidian,  150,  159. 
Opossum,  46,  59. 
Orioles,  71,  90,  144,  197. 
Oven-bird,  135. 


P.  J  *  anther  ;  179. 

Partridge-terry,  54. 
Pepper-bush,  sweet,  141. 
P/fc,  125. 

P/»<?,  Weymoutb,  30. 
Pinxter  flower  ,  141. 
Pipilo,  113. 
Plover,  1  88. 
P/«w,  •«;/  A/,  141. 
Pontederia,  155. 
Poplar,  Lombardy,  30. 
Primrose,  155. 

57,  61,  68. 


Q.  ^fl//,  32,  200. 


R.  Rabbit,  44,  1  88,  196. 

Raccoon,  47,  187. 
Rail-bird,  199. 
Raven,  146. 
Red-eye,  19,  32. 
Redstart,  32. 
Reed-bird,  198. 


214  Index 

Reeds ,  155. 
Relics,  Indian,  43. 
Robin,  32,  47,  75,  146. 
Rose-mallow,  41. 
Roses,  145. 

S.  Sand-piper,  25,  38. 

Saponaria,  77. 
&<&<?,  156. 
Shad-bush,  140. 
Snake,  garter-,  27. 

wtffcr-,  130,  179,  190. 
Snow-birds,  67. 
Sparrow,  chipping,  32,  1 80. 
foxic,  207. 

*»»£-»  25>  32>  ?6,  88,  135. 

swamp-,  41. 

/««-,  59,  82,  198. 

white-throated,  59,  198,  207. 
Sphagnum,  56,  57,  69. 
Spice-wood,  73,  140. 
%Vfc«,  37. 
Spirea,  141. 
Squirrel,  flying-,  59. 
Sundew,  69. 
Sunfish,  129. 
Sunflower,  41,  155. 
Swallow,  bank,  93  j   &zr»,  94. 

T.  Tanager,  scarlet,  53,  144. 

Tea-berry,  52. 
Tea/,  blue-winged,  190. 


Index  215 


Thorn,  white,  141. 
Thrush,  brown,  32,  72,  82. 
Thrushes,  71,  144. 
Titmouse,  ao,  67,  75. 
7Vo«f,  127. 
Trumpet-creeper,  136. 
Tulip-tree,  43. 
Turkey  -buzzard,  32. 
Turtle,  snapping-,  132,  179. 

V.  Vireo,  red-eyed,  32,  905   white-eyed,  112. 

W.  Warbler,  spotted,  32,  51. 

tree-creeping,  87. 
Warblers,  51,  73,  205. 
Weasel,  156. 
Whippoorwill,  72. 
Winter-green,  62,  69. 
^0//,  179. 
Wood-robin,  18. 

31,  72,  142. 

Carolina,  79. 

marsh-,  41. 

•winter,  207. 


